The New Order
by Bloodmark Mentor
Summary: In the year 2022 the United States and the European Federation are waging a war against the New Russian Republic. Amidst the bloodshed three men will come together to end the war and shed light on a darker, more sinister agenda.
1. Chapter 1: The Three Catalysts

Synopsis: this is a Bad Company/Endwar cross over fiction with a little bit of real world politics and my own imagination thrown in; it is also my first cross over fiction, however the two games coincide very well, and I believe that the dual references will be quite subtle. The story is driven by the Endwar concept, but takes place primarily in the Bad Company universe. Since Endwar in particular is a game open to interpretation, the story will be told from a number of different angles, and the plot may surprise you.

Also, unlike the last story I submitted (Operation Devildog, which, consequently I am EXTREMELY ashamed of) this one is 100% original, from my mind. Although it is based in a universe that is not my own, I have not taken the following scenes from any movie, or game, nor have I borrowed the names of any characters I am familiar with. I hope that, for some of my critics, this story will at least make up for my previous one.

On that note, let's begin.

* * *

><p>September 11th, 2001: two hijacked commercial airliners crash into the World Trade Center, killing nearly three thousand people in the worst attack on US soil in history. The official explanation was that terrorists from a rouge organization known as <em>al-Qaeda<em> had planned the attack over the course of several years, although a proper investigation is never launched. The United States then begins its "War on Terror" and invades Afghanistan. The PATRIOT Act is signed, allowing the government to spy on American citizens and implement martial law at any given time as a means of "security".

March 20th, 2003: the United States launches Operation Iraqi Freedom, and masses a coalition force of three hundred thousand soldiers from multiple countries. President George W. Bush authorizes the invasion without a declaration of war from Congress. The rationale for the invasion was to remove "a regime that developed and used weapons of mass destruction that harbored and supported terrorists, committed outrageous human rights abuses, and defied the just demands of the United Nations and the world".

August 17th, 2007: Vladimir Putin issues a statement, revealing that Russia was to resume the flight exercises of its strategic bombers in remote areas. That same year, the United States is hit with a massive financial crisis, the worst since the Great Depression of 1933, triggered by a liquidity shortfall in the United States banking system. Many people suspect the event was an inside job by bankers from multiple nations, and anti-federal protests begin.

January 20th, 2009: Barack Hussein Obama is sworn into office. In the wake of Social Reform, along with his "unconstitutional policies" nearly two hundred new militia groups are created in the US. These groups arise for a number of different reasons, fearing that their civil liberties are at risk. The _Tea Party_ movement also gains massive support from American citizens. As such, the Army begins evaluating strategies to combat the increasingly aggressive population, and begins preparing for civil unrest and martial law.

April 21st, 2012: The United States _Joint Strike Forces_ are created. The JSF are a new branch of the military capable of mobilizing in less than twenty four hours to deploy anywhere in the world at any time, utilizing state-of-the-art technology and weaponry. This aggressive military action is condemned by the _United Nations_ as many believe that the US has over-stepped their boundaries in the world-political arena.

May 9th, 2014: The Libertarian Party of the Russian Federation moves to the forefront of Russian politics. This new party calls for smaller government, increased civil liberties, and a tight grip on national banks. Protests and public demonstrations are held throughout the whole country. NATO demands that the Russian military take steps to put an end to the "extremist movement by implementing strict security policies nationwide, to ensure the peace and stability of the world."

June 5th, 2015: Ukraine and Kazakhstan join the Union State, along with South Ossetia, Moldova, and others. The Libertarian Party takes control of Russia, and the nations of the Union State adopt their new Constitution as well, effectively merging the many nations into one, the _New Russian Republic_. By the end of the year, more than twelve countries voluntarily merge with Russia.

September 11th, 2016: Fifteen years after the 2001 al-Qaeda attacks, a nuclear exchange between Saudi Arabia and Iran kills six million people, effectively crippling the world's oil supply. Fearing a massive economic crisis, as well as further nuclear attacks, the Middle East Coalition is formed as a means to counteract the growing threat of "domestic terrorism caused by the recent exchange, by ensuring security and tranquility through a common army and government."

January 7th, 2017: the Joint American-European missile shield goes live, making Inter Continental Ballistic Missiles obsolete; the threat of nuclear war is destroyed, and nations world-wide celebrate this spectacular victory. However, the global oil crisis is still in full swing, as gas and oil prices get higher and higher. Russia, now the leading supplier of oil and natural gas, uses its new-found riches to increase its military strength, fearing that the US and Europe will use the new missile shield as a tool to force their will upon the Motherland, and responds by creating the Spetsnaz Guard Brigade to strengthen homeland defense.

October 27th, 2018: the European Federation is created. Comprised of the European Union member states, the European Federation has a higher population, GNP, and standard of living than both America and Russia. This forced unification causes massive rioting and public demonstration throughout the country. The European Federation Enforcer Corps is created to subdue and control the enraged populace, causing militant groups to form, using the failed states in the Balkans as a staging area.

November 17th, 2020: the United States and the European Federation begin joint military exercises designed to simulate a world-wide armed conflict. These exercises include massive deployments of troops around the Russian border, the Middle East, South America, Asia and Africa and implementation of martial law on both countries domestic populations. These exercises spark massive protests throughout the west, and Russia responds by sending troops to the boarder. Russian Generals issue strict orders to their men not to fire unless fired upon, fearing that this peak in tensions will spark a massive war…and it did.

Atacama Desert, South America,  
>01400 hours, July 28th, 2022<p>

Blazing heat and vicious winds made conditions in the desert a nightmare. The wind blew coarse sand in their faces, and coupled with the hundred and seventeen degree weather, Nathan Martin and his troops were in hell. Of course, over the last two years, they had been to hell and back _many_ times before. No one knew who fired the first shots of the war, but it was widely accepted that European artillery had fired the first volley, effectively igniting the powder keg. The first battle took place on the border of what used to be Moldova, and became known as the Battle of Ungeny. A hundred fifty thousand Russian troops squared off against three hundred thousand European troops.

The battle lasted two hours and almost two hundred thousand men died in the first hour alone. Watching the fight being covered on every news station in the world was truly horrifying to say the least; it was massive and frantic. The night sky was covered with a thick blanket of dark grey clouds, and the only things visible were the tracer rounds and the various explosions that surged throughout the night. One reporter described it as if "the forces of heaven and hell themselves were doing battle on that field." After two hours the Euros crossed onto Russian lines and began their ultimately futile advance into the Motherland.

The Battle of Ungeny was the first of many awe-inspiring fights that would take place over the next two years. During those years, Nathan Martin and his men had seen combat on every corner of the globe, including Northern Europe, Africa, and now, South America. Martin and his troops were soldiers of the Joint Strike Force 15th Special Operations Battalion, one of the most well-known units in the world at that point. Martin was a veteran of several wars, including Iraq and Afghanistan as both an Army regular, and a Ranger. He also did two tours in Venezuela in 2013 and two more in Algeria in 2015. In 2018 Martin qualified for the Joint Strike Forces and quickly rose to the rank of Captain within the force. His scores were so good in fact, that General Nathaniel Goudie himself personally requested that Martin be transferred to his battalion.

Now they were in Chile, preparing an ambush for a force of Russian reinforcements coming ashore. Six hours ago U.S. and Russian army forces clashed for control of this small town's offshore missile batteries. US forces had fled the area after a formation of TU-160s bombed the hell out of place. Martin and his handpicked group of fifteen troops dropped in, prepared a defense, and were awaiting the arrival of the enemy.

The Captain's second-in-command, Lieutenant Jack Hayder, approached Martin, who was planting the last of the remote det charges on the missile batteries.

"UAVs' picking up multiple landing craft leaving the main ships," Jack told him.

"I'm aware of that," Nathan simply replied as he primed the last charge.

"What's this for?"

"Just in case we need to get out of here in a hurry; the Russians ain't gettin' these missiles back in one piece."

"Speaking of which, we got about two minutes before the first of their infantry hit the beach." Nathan looked over the sandbags at the Russian fleet that had anchored off shore. From this distance they were close, but not close enough, which was just fine by any standard. The Russians couldn't risk bombarding the beach again, lest the missile batteries be destroyed; however, they were more than prepared to take the town. Opening the UAV's camera on his head's up display, Martin was able to get a clear look at what the enemy had coming. There had to be at least a hundred infantry escorted by BTR-90s. Luckily, Martin's engineers had rigged the beach with high-explosive anti-vehicle mines and claymores for the infantry. Needless to say, the Russians were in for a hell of a treat.

"Alright, that's the last one," the Captain said as he placed the charge on the missile battery. "I trust everyone's in position?"

"Affirmative," Jack replied. "Garner's on the roof with the fifty-cal and the men are dug in to defend; the drones are in position on our flanks."

"Excellent." Nathan picked up his XMX rifle and took aim over the sandbags. Jack leveled his MRC as well. "Squad, this is Captain Martin, you have a green light to engage; fire as soon as the bastards come in range; Ramirez, Locke, prioritize targets and fire at will."

"Depend on it," his engineer, Locke, replied. He could see clearly now; the first boats were almost there. Looking through his rifle's scope, Martin quickly identified an enemy support gunner carrying a PKM. Quick and lethal, his XMX could reach out and hit targets out to a thousand yards; using that capability, he fired, nailing the gunner in his head, his body dropping into the water as his comrades hit the deck. A missile from one of Nathan's engineers arced over the water and slammed into one of the boats, sending the men on board flying high.

"Man, what a shot!" Ramirez complimented Locke's kill. Another missile sped towards one of the Russian boats, this time hitting its stern, killing all the soldiers on board. Now the first of the boats made it to shore, the Russian troops jumping from their craft and moving up the beach. Fifty cal machine guns opened up, and Martin picked his targets and fired, nailing each of his victims with head shots. His men complied, and the helpless Russians began dropping like flies.

"Yeah, make em' eat it!" one of his men called. Sergeant Sophie Duvall pumped out a heavy volume of lead from her M250, pinning down any enemies that attempted to move up. One of them tried to run for cover and was peppered by Duvall's hail of 6.8mm rounds. Nathan spotted two targets, fired, and dropped the Russians in less than three seconds. He and his men were nailing targets with pinpoint accuracy; there would be no wounded on the beach today. Not even vehicles were safe, as the first of the BTRs made it ashore and subsequently exploded, the shrapnel cutting through Russian flesh like tissue paper. Some men were set aflame when a BTR's gas line exploded; Nathan could faintly hear their screams over the sounds of battle. He ignored it and kept dropping targets. After successfully killing three more tangos, Nathan dropped for cover and took a minute to analyze the situation. Looking over the sandbag he could see multiple corpses, perhaps as many as sixty by now. He opened up his squad's health monitors; zero casualties so far. He grinned and took a quick glimpse at his second-in-command.

Hayder was an artist with his MRC; truly he had mastered it. Most JSF troops avoided the rifle because it hadn't been as battle-proven as the XMX and the SCAR-A1, and its caseless ammunition was still in the developmental stage, not to mention its bullpup design was alien to most US military troops; but Hayder had stumbled upon it in the armory once upon a time and described it as "the coolest fucking rifle I've ever seen." Having used it extensively for more than five years, he was the de-facto poster boy for its development. Now he was picking off targets left and right, utilizing the immense advantages of its extreme light-weight fifty round magazines.

But soon it occurred to Nathan that no more enemies were standing. He looked over his cover to see nothing on the beach but bodies drenched in blood, BTRs engulfed in flames. The water had turned from its transparent blue to morbid red, and all of the Russians that had come ashore were dead, on the beach, soaked in their own blood.

"Very nice," he complimented his men over the COMM. "They'll be sending in a new wave soon, probably with more armor support; all units, swap mags and take aim; this ain't over yet." Martin took out a fresh forty-five round mag from his vest, tapped it on his modular helmet, and smacked it into place, pulling the charging handle and taking aim. He could see very clearly more boats packed with soldiers, as well as armed LCAC units. The second wave was going to be much more vicious, and Nathan suspected that several of his men would die in the next assault.

The first LCAC hit the beach, and out came fifty Russian troops, including combat engineers, all accompanied by six BTR-90s. Nathan and his men opened up on them with a barrage of hot lead, nearly sixteen of them dropping as soon as their feet hit the sand. Their startled brethren stumbled and fell over their bodies, but Martin's men had no mercy. The ones that fell were picked off, and the others who attempted to make for cover were gunned down by a combination of Sergeant Duvall's machinegun fire, and Garner's fifty-cal sniper rifle.

The second LCAC hit the beach, and inside it were three T-90 MBTs, the first of which opened fire almost instantly. The shell flew over cover and slammed into one of Martin's positions. The two other tanks dropped from the landing craft and spread out, one tripping an anti-vehicle mine, destroying the beast instantly. The two remaining tanks charged for Martin's position.

"Captain," Locke reported. "Five guys are dead, and three are wounded."

"Captain," one of his men spoke. "What do we do about those tanks?"

"Locke, Ramirez," Nathan spoke. "Put some fire on those MBTs or we're not getting out of here; Jackson, Garner, Duvall, cover them; everyone else, keeping picking targets and thin 'em out." The wall of fire from the JSF position only intensified as the fight got heavier. Russian troops that attempted to flank their position were slaughtered by the JSF drones, and their armor was faltering under the rain of rockets from Ramirez and Locke's combined fire. The Russians were prepared to fight a massive defense force, not a few dug in Joint Strike Force operatives.

"Haha, we're killin' 'em!" one of his men laughed over the COMM. "I can do this all day!"

"Davenport, cut the chatter," Hayder ordered.

Martin looked through his binoculars and zoomed in. As he viewed the oncoming third wave, he spotted two aircraft descending from above. The two planes were PAK FAs; Russian stealth fighters. By his guess they were the carrier-based variants, more than likely launched from an Ulyanovsk-class Supercarrier. The two fighters screamed overhead, but Martin didn't even flinch, he simply tracked them as they pulled up and away.

"Shit," he spoke as two five hundred pound bombs slammed into the town. The shockwave knocked him down and all he could see was dust. "Status!" he ordered. "Is everyone alright?"

"Sir," Ramirez cried over the COMM. He coughed heavily and continued, "Lockes' dead, and we lost two of our drones! The guys who were wounded are dead, too!"

"Regroup on my position," he ordered. "Have the drones form up and fall back; all units, maintain a high rate of fire, I want one shot kills." Nathan checked the UAV's camera again; more boats carrying light infantry were headed in their direction.

"What the fuck I thought they weren't gonna' bomb the beach!" Hayder screamed over the noise. "What's our new directive, sir?"

"Getting out of here alive," the Captain replied. "Have any remaining drones cover our retreat, I'm gonna' see if we can't get some air support on station." While crouching, Martin moved further back, and opened a channel to Force Command. "Watch Tower, this is Phantom-Actual, how copy, over?"

"Phantom-Actual this is Watch Tower, I read you, five by five," a woman's voice replied.

"Watch Tower, our Intel was off; the Russians have deployed heavy armor on the beach and air support has been used against us; looks like these batteries aren't what they're after, over."

"Solid copy, Phantom-Actual; what do you need?"

"Is there any air support on station? Preferably a few Strike Fighters over." There was a short pause. During that pause, another tank shell smashed into the building where Garner had been sniping from. The building creaked, buckled and caved in, taking Garner down with it, the structure being replaced by a plume of dust and smoke. "Son of a bitch!"

"Phantom-Actual, I've got a pair of Raptors on station at this time, and the entire Third Armored Battalion is closing in on your position; you stay alive for ten minutes, you'll get your reinforcements, over."

"I wasn't aware were receiving backup, over."

"Count your blessings, Phantom-Actual; Watch Tower, out."

"Squad, listen close," Martin's voice boomed over the COMM. "The Third Armored is heading here to reinforce us; they'll be on station is ten mikes, we need to hold these bastards off until then."

"What the hell are we here for!" Ramirez asked, enraged by the death of his friend.

"Forget it, Ramirez," the Captain told him. "We're here now, and if we don't fall back we're gonna' fucking die!" Nathan swapped mags and got up from cover. "Fall back! Everyone fall back! Go, go; go!"

Nathan and his remaining men raced for safety. Behind them, beyond the town, where a portion of the last battle had taken place, there were wrecked vehicles and fox holes created by artillery and mortar fire. Using those as cover, the squad would dig in for its last line of defense, allowing the drones to cover their retreat. Behind them more enemy armor had landed, and a hundred Russian troops were storming the beach. For the first time in a long time, Nathan wasn't sure he'd make it out alive. All he could hear was the whine of heavy engines and the various shouts of Russian officers ordering their men to get after Martin and his troops.

After running and sliding into a foxhole, Martin looked over his shoulder and took aim. The six men that had survived were spread out awaiting the horde of Russians that would be heading over the hill at any moment. Hayder was in a hole about fifteen feet from where Martin had taken cover, with Duvall taking up the center of the formation, and the three other men forming a loose perimeter.

Now all of the drones had been destroyed, leaving nothing between them and the Russians. But then something suspicious happened. No infantry were swarming over the hill as Nate had suspected they would. He went to check the UAV camera, only to find nothing but static. _Fuck_, he thought. _They shot down the UAV_. Closing the feed, he looked over his cover and heard nothing but the sound of tank treads and engines. No one said a word. The tense anxiety was quickly broken by the sight of a massive hundred fifty-two millimeter main gun rising over the hill. Nate's heart rose to his throat.

"Ogres!" he screamed as the mammoth T-100s leveled and fired. The Ogre was a leviathan of a Russian tank, equipped with a hundred fifty-two millimeter main gun, twin anti-aircraft cannons, incendiary rockets and flame throwers, two massive claws on the front, and a whole lot of explosive reactive armor plating. Now two of these monsters had their cannons aimed and Martin and his men, and they didn't have the firepower to even scratch the armor.

"Jesus Christ!" Ramirez cried. "What the hell do we do now, sir?"

"Ramirez, use whatever you've got left on those tanks!" Nathan ordered.

"Are you out of your mind? I wouldn't even be able to scathe those things!"

"Aim for the cannons; maybe we can disable those and make a run for the compound to the east!" One of the men suggested.

"You heard him, Ramirez!" Nate agreed. "Get to it! Everyone else, pop smoke and lay down a base of fire; I'll distract them!" Martin got up from cover and ran for the nearest vehicle carcass, firing on full-auto at the tanks, one of which tracked him and fired. The shot missed Martin by mere inches, and by the time he got back to cover, he had fallen into a state of shock and awe. "Fuck that was close." He dared a look from cover; one of the T-100s was moving around the right, attempting to intercept him. Putting his back to the destroyed vehicle, he reached into one of his patches and pulled out an E.V.S.D., or Electronic Vehicle System Disruptor. These nasty little bastards were highly experimental, but extremely effective in the field. They were designed to completely knock out radar, targeting, and navigational systems on everything from cars to small submarines.

He primed the device, and awaited the opportune moment. He licked his upper lip, took a deep breath, and sprung from cover just as the Ogre came about, its main gun pointing directly in his direction. Martin hurled the device. It arced and landed right in between the gun and the hull; when it activated, every electronic mechanism on the beast went dead, including its target acquisition and firing solution. However, this would only last for a few minutes at best, which was plenty time enough. Looking back to the second tank, he saw that it was surrounded by white smoke.

At that moment a deafening roar enveloped the battlefield as the two F-22A Raptors swopped overhead, circling west. "Phantom Actual this is Strike Leader, callsign Badger; we're ready to receive target coordinates, over."

"Roger that, Badger; designating targets now. You have a green light on two T-100 Ogre tanks, targets will be marked."

"Solid copy; paint the target." Nathan aimed his rifle at the disabled T-100. On the right side of the XMX was a laser pointer that doubled as a target designator. He flipped a switch on the device and in mere seconds the coordinates of the steel coffin were transmitted to the vectoring Raptors. One of his men followed suit and painted the second target.

"Okay, we have a positive ID on the targets. Best clear out of there on the double, Captain."

"Wilco, we're getting moving," Martin replied. "Everyone haul ass to the compound!" he ordered them. The five JSF hoped up from cover and ran as fast as they could. Martin checked their flank periodically to make sure the Ogre he had EMP'd hadn't recovered and given chase. It would all be over if the bastard fired from behind and took out the whole squad at once.

"Spread out!" Nathan ordered his men. "Don't give 'em an easy target." At that moment the thunder from the F-22's seemed to reach out and touch Nate and his men. The thunder became a screech as the Raptors soared overhead, both of them releasing a single JDAM on their respective targets. The boom from the explosions left a ringing in their ears, but Martin knew that both of the enemy tanks were history.

They reached the fallback point and Hayder took a moment to observe what was behind them. Several BTR-90s were in hot pursuit, as well as two Mi-28 Havoc gunships. Lucky for them, there was still one anti-aircraft gun operational near the hangar. "Pedersen," He barked. "Get on that AA gun and drop those Havocs before they rip us to pieces."

"Oh, I almost forgot," Nathan said and pulled out the detonator for the explosives attached to the missile batteries. He pulled the trigger, taking out the missiles and ensuring that the Russians wouldn't be able to use them when the reinforcements arrived. "Alright," he said. "Everyone find some cover; we need to hold this position."

"No disrespect," one of them said. "Shouldn't we call the dropship and get the hell out of here? We've done our job; let the army guys handle the rest!"

"Our orders are to hold this position down; we don't leave until the jobs' finished, trooper," Hayder reprimanded the young man. "Although he's probably right," he said to Martin as he walked passed him.

Pedersen manned the AA gun and opened fire on the Havoc gunships. The two helis split formation. As they did, the BTRs rolled up into the compound. Ramirez fired off a rocket which slammed into the front of the lead BTR. The vehicle's front right wheel was blown clean off and the IFV screeched to a halt. The other two BTRs stopped and unloaded eight troops each and laid down suppression fire. Martin upped from cover and fired four times, killing two enemies. The remaining Russians had spread out and found cover, and were taking potshots at Martin and his men while the BTRs provided covering fire.

"Watch Tower what's the status on those reinforcements?" Nate screamed into his helmet mic. There was a pause. A rocket slammed into one of the BTRs, but it was still operational, and therefore, still able to kill.

"Captain I'm out of rockets!" Ramirez said and switched to his silenced Kriss Super V.

"Watch Tower where the FUCK is that armor!" Mere seconds later, one of the Havoc gunships fell out of the sky, slammed into two BTRs, and killed the infantry surrounding them. Nathan had ducked low and covered his head. When he realized that the sound of automatic weapons had subsided, he opened his eyes and looked up. All he could see was a crumbled heap of messed up vehicles, fire and smoke.

"Captain, enemy gunships neutralized," Pedersen reported. The sheer amazement on Ramirez's face turned to a five-mile smile as he began chuckling to himself. "Fuck yeah!" he screamed, now in a state of pure ecstasy. "Holy shit did you see that! Man we kicked their asses! That's why you don't fuck with the JSF, baby!"

"Hey, Captain!" Sophie yelled and pointed west. "Look who decided to show up!" Nathan looked; a thundering horde of Abrams tanks and Humvees rolled into town. The large group pulled up to where Martin and his men had first dug in and opened up on the Russian armor. The Humvees unloaded troops that spread out in every direction. Before long, the Army had secured the town, and was clashing with the Russian fleet offshore.

The two F-22As screamed over the town and went after the enemy ships. They both dropped two bombs each on the Kirov-class Cruiser in the center of the fleet formation, crippling a number of its weapons and speeding off into the sky. At that moment, six Humvees and a pair of tanks rolled up to the compound to meet Captain Martin and his remaining men. Troopers with M416 assault rifles and MK 48 machine guns piled out and began performing various tasks. One of the men approached Captain Martin and saluted him.

"Captain, Lieutenant Volker, Third Armored," the young man introduced himself. "We'll take it from here, sir."

"Very well, Lieutenant," Nathan replied. "She's all yours." The Lieutenant saluted, twisted on his heel and walked away. Captain Martin opened up a new channel to the V-25 Goshawk that had dropped off the squad two hours prior. "Tango X-ray this is Phantom-Actual; mission is complete and we are ready for dust off; approach when ready."

"Wilco, Captain; we're on route to your location. Be ready to go, out." Nathan sat down and rested his rifle on its butt. He sighed. Nine of his men died today; nine families would never see their sons, fathers, or daughters again; daughters because the only other woman in the squad at the time of deployment was Private First-class Julia Ramos, a girl who joined the Marines shortly after her high-school graduation. She was barely twenty one and Martin had to write a letter to her loved ones, telling them how she had died under _his_ command.

"Son of a bitch," he said to himself.

"Is everything okay, Captain?" Hayder approached and asked. He didn't respond. Seconds later, the Goshawk set down on the landing pad and opened its rear bay door. The survivors piled in, the door closed, and the helo took off.

"This is Tango X-ray; we are outbound. Welcome back, gentlemen."

* * *

><p>Moscow, New Russian Republic<br>1500 hours

"General," Colonel Fyodor Savilov spoke. "We lost Colonel Kirelenko, sir." General Sergei Izotov looked up from his desk.

"How did this happen?" he asked.

"His plane was brought down by American Special Forces that had boarded just before takeoff." Izotov shook his head and rubbed his temple.

"And I'm going to assume the weapon was lost with him?"

"The Americans destroyed it before they brought the plane down, sir."

The General sighed. "And so goes our hope of ending the war any time soon," he said and rose from his chair. Looking out of the window in his office, he said "Colonel Kirelenko was a good man; writing the letter to his family will be difficult." It was true. In fact, Izotov was able to recall meeting the idealistic young man several years prior. Kirelenko was one of Izotov's greatest achievements, and one of his favorite subordinates. As a Colonel in the Army, Kirelenko was largely responsible for the success of the South American campaign. Over the course of eight years he supplied and trained the militias of Argentina, Bolivia, Chili, and Venezuela, who played an essential role in fighting the imperialist invaders.

Before the war, the United States occupied a good portion of the continent, after a brief and violent invasion of Venezuela that brought the country to its knees because then-president Hugo Chavez had the courage to resist American influence. He was imprisoned, put on trial, and formally executed for "endangering world peace by destabilizing the South American continent with a grossly inappropriate arms race with Columbia." When the World War Three began, massive uprisings ensued throughout the Latin-American nations, as over the years opposition to American imperialism grew larger and louder.

Kirelenko was also responsible for the reconstruction of the Scalar weapon that was built by Imperial Japan during the Second World War. The "black weapon" used scalar technology to create an immense electromagnetic field that would cripple all electronic devices for nearly five hundred miles. This weapon was only fired once, and the results were so devastating that after the war, the Allies took it upon themselves to dismantle it and scatter the essential mechanisms across the globe. Kirelenko tracked down, reconstructed, and perfected the weapon. His plan was simple; while the United States was busy fighting a war across the globe, Kirelenko would fly his AN-225 over the American mainland, fire the weapon, and bring the United States to its knees. Without their greatest ally, the European Federation would fall soon after, ending the war, and the globalist dream of the New World Order; but now that man was dead, the weapon destroyed, and once again the end of the war was nowhere in sight.

"There is some good news, though," Savilov told him. "Our spy satellites are showing American forces retreating across South America. One more push should kick them out for good."

"Indeed," Izotov replied. "While this will surely be a major victory for us, we have still lost our trump card."

"It is still possible to win the war, General."

"Yes, but at the cost of millions of more lives and many years of fighting. Without the weapon, the balance of this conflict has tipped in favor of the New World Order…but perhaps there is another way."

"Sir?" the Colonel asked. General Izotov remembered all of the super weapon designs he and his officers had discussed during the pre-war period. He remembered them talking about designs for an antimatter weapon; one of vast, horrifying power. The lack of research and funding doomed the project, but Izotov had kept the details on file…just incase.

"What are your plans this afternoon, Colonel?"

"I was going to visit my men fighting in West Poland. Why, sir?"

"Perhaps you would join me for lunch with Major General Tatarev at Vogue Café this afternoon?"

"I'd be honored, sir," Savilov correctly replied.

"Then I will see you in one hour, Colonel. And thank you for the news."

"Absolutely, General; I thank _you_ for your time." The two men saluted, and Savilov left the General's office. As he left, he played the whole conversation again and again in his head. He had never been particularly close with General Izotov, but now he was going to meet up with him for lunch, something the General rarely offered save for his highest-ranking and most trusted officers. Perhaps this would be a new beginning for the Colonel; maybe if he did well enough he would get that promotion that had evaded him for so many years. Either way, this opportunity could only further Savilov's already distinguished career…he just hoped he wouldn't screw it up.

* * *

><p>Paris, European Federation<p>

1550 hours

The Kommandos lined the streets around the Élysée Palace, riot shields up and weapons at the ready. In front of them, a massive crowd of enraged citizens gathered to protest their government's war against Russia. The sounds of the growing crowd had become deafening. They waved signs that read like "Our men and women know the definition of unity…in death." Or "My son died for _your_ cause." These, however, didn't faze the Enforcers at all. They stood, cold as stone, ready to do what was expected of them at a moment's notice. At their sides were multiple-grenade launchers, E3000 bullpup assault rifles chambered with rubber bullets, and advanced taser systems. The local police forces had donated sound cannons and active denial systems to disperse the crowd, but to no effect. The citizens of Europe were furious, and they were determined to get their point across.

They saw passed the façade, the curtain that the government had tried to pull over their eyes for so long. The Feds instigated a war with Russia, spied on European citizens, shut down anti-government websites, incarcerated the innocent, and this was the consequence; almost a million Europeans peacefully protesting for the same cause; freedom from a tyrannical government.

This was not the only place that protests occurred. On this day citizens were protesting in Essen, Germany; Barcelona, Spain; and Lublin, Poland, just to name a few. In the past two years, the Enforcer Corps had subdued every major protest and riot small and large. Some people had died along the way, and many more severely injured, and while that didn't stop people from expressing their anger and disapproval, the responses grew increasingly harsh, sometimes even violating human rights laws. Any viral videos or images showcasing police and Enforcer brutality were destroyed by the European government. The media did everything they could to guise the protests as isolated incidents, and for a time, it worked. However, too many people had grown tired of their government interfering with their personal lives; all of the ridiculous security at every road block and airport; being under constant government surveillance and having agents come to their homes to question them; being afraid to speak their minds for fear of incarceration or being put on a government watch list…all from a regime designed to better protect the peoples of Europe.

As the thundering roar of the crowd echoed through the streets, the men and women of the Enforcer Corps 20th Assault battalion stood ever vigilant. The protestors had bats, lead pipes, and other improvised weapons. Still, the Enforcers were unfazed. They came from elite terrorist fighting organizations and Special Forces from across Europe; all of them had seen their fair share of brutal street fighting; a protest, even one as large as this, was no challenge.

Colonel Hans Jaeger observed the protest from the safety of his LV-20 Charlemagne command-support vehicle. At that moment he decided that this protest needed to end. He opened a COMM and issued the order. "Captain this is Hardwire; you have permission to suppress the crowd, non-lethal weaponry only; I want zero penetrations, is that understood?"

"Understood, Colonel," Captain Jun Gaudet replied; his French accent enveloped every word. "This won't take long." The Captain moved to the front of the line of his men. "Make ready!" he barked. The Enforcers primed their MGLs and positioned their riot shields to the front. They stomped their left foot to signal the crowd that things were about to get ugly.

"Take aim!" The protestors grew anxious and panicky as some of them braced for what was about to happen. Some of them held their ground with their improvised weapons in hand and a look of fierce opposition in their eyes. Others shook nervously and moved about, some of them getting the hell out of dodge and trying to flee in their panic.

"Fire!" the Captain ordered. A barrage of smoke grenades arced and detonated at the front of the mob. Through their heat-vision goggles the Enforcers could see the crowd beginning to disperse, but a great majority was still present. They fired another salvo, and this time the grenades exploded inside the crowd. The Enforcers swapped their MGLs and swung their E3000 rifles to bear, and opened fire. A hail of rubber bullets impacted flesh and fractured bone. Using the surgical precision they had been known for, when utilizing rubber bullets, the Enforcers _never_ aimed for the head. The crowd was on the run, but still, nearly two thirds of them remained.

"Move in!" Gaudet ordered. The menacing line of Enforcers grabbed their batons and charged at those foolish enough to stand and fight. At that moment, a medieval-style brawl broke out in the streets of the nation's capitol. Hundreds of protestors clashed with Enforcers, bats flying, bones breaking and blood spilling. The sound cannons blared and active denial systems split the crowds in two. Enforcers clad in their blue urban camouflage and gear surrounded and isolated individual groups, using tasers, batons, or their fists to break the crowd. All Enforcers were experts in hand-to-hand fighting; any attempt to fight them head-on faltered immediately.

Colonel Jaeger viewed the brawl through a drone camera. His men had policed more than a hundred people. They dragged the protestors off by their necks and threw them into Badger IFVs. He typed in a few keys and on his monitor, another camera opened, this one being broadcast from one of his men's helmets. A line of Enforcers pumped gas grenades into their rifles under slung launchers and fired. They moved in and beat the protestors into submission, policing them in mere seconds.

"Congratulations, Colonel," one of the operators inside the command vehicle said. "That's one for the books."

"Colonel, General Matz is hailing us; patching him through now." On the main view screen, General Alexis Matz appeared. One of the greatest, most intelligent Generals in the European Military, Matz was well known for his stern, cold conviction. His eyes showed no emotion; when he spoke the air became frigid and uncomfortable; even seasoned veterans felt a chill when Matz spoke. He showed no remorse for the enemies he slaughtered in every engagement; he had never lost a battle. His victories at the battles of Bergen, Katowice and Rovaniemi were considered "extreme decisive victories"—in other words, perfect; and he knew it as well; they didn't call his battalion of hand-picked veterans "the Edge of Europa's Sword" for nothing.

"General Matz," Jaeger spoke. "To what do I owe such an honor?"

"Colonel, I came to congratulate you on your excellent job putting down this protest," he said to the extreme surprise of everyone in the vehicle. "Riot control is an ugly business, and I believe you are not receiving the recognition you deserve."

Colonel Jaeger was speechless. Was this really happening? Was he dreaming? This was General Alexis Matz, and he was _griping_…and to a Colonel no less!

"I don't know what to say sir," Hans told the truth. "But I'm honored."

"I've been reviewing the reports of your previous missions; a commander of such caliber is far too overqualified to be containing protests for the rest of the war…how would you like a change of scenery?"

"I'm all ears."

"Command is planning a massive operation; General De Bankole is working with Grégoire DeLacour of the Army on a plan to reclaim lost territory from the Russians. I and other high-ranking officials will be meeting in three days in Copenhagen to flesh out and finalize our strategy; I'd like you to be there, Colonel." Jaeger was stunned. He was barely able to speak.

"Me, sir?" he asked.

"You're the best choice by far," Matz replied. "Are you up for it, Colonel Jaeger? Are you willing to do what is necessary to win this war?"

"Always, sir…no matter what it takes."

"Very well; then I will see you in three days; a chopper will fly you from your headquarters to Denmark in two days time. I look forward to seeing you, Colonel." The screen went black, and Colonel Jaeger could barely contemplate what had just happened. He was paralyzed…and he couldn't help but recoil at some of his words…had he known General Matz's intentions, he would have chosen them more carefully. Still, he was going to be part of an elite circle of men and women who would decide the outcome of the war, and that meant lots of time in front of the camera…and the higher-ups! Now was his chance to make a real name for himself.

He leaned back in the chair with his hands behind his head. He looked through the various helmet feeds to see that the protest had been put to an end. The last of the protestors were handcuffed, sitting against a wall awaiting the arrival of APCs that would take them to jail. In a way, Hans felt a bit sorry for those young men and women; those who so bravely stood up despite odds being heavily against them; not to mention the corporate-controlled media demonizing them as terrorists, criminals, extremists and, on one occasion, undesirables. But that was the price the people paid for the increased security they had asked for. They wanted a common currency, they got it; they wanted a unified European government, they got it; they wanted a common military composed of the armies of the EU's old member states, and they got it. Hell, they got a whole damn country out of the deal. They wanted it, and the governments of Europe were happy to deliver.

Colonel Jaeger closed the monitor. "Lieutenant; radio all units and tell them to start packing up. The police can take it from here."

"Roger that, sir," Lieutenant Carmela Vasquez replied. "And may I say, sir; congratulations." Jaeger allowed himself a humble smile. Things were making a turn for the better…for him at least. On the larger scale, the war was escalating, and fighting was going to become vicious over the next six weeks as both sides were about to clash for vital territories; capital cities were going to be sacked, millions of lives lost, and little did anyone know, the fate of mankind would be decided. It was all a matter of who made the first move.

* * *

><p>This marks my triumphant return! At the time I posted this, chapter two is already being written, and as we speak I'm working on ideas for chapter three! On a note to my more recent readers; don't give up hope for my Ace Combat fictions; a recent revival in my love for the series has spawned some new ideas and possibly (but far far FAR from definatley) a REMAKE of Paradox Crisis! As always, reviews and constructive criticism are highly appreciated.<p>

Sincerely- Thomas John.


	2. Chapter 2: The Coming Storm

Remote location in Colorado Springs, United States  
>1630 hours, July 28th<p>

Peter lay against a large tree. He sheathed his kukri to his left shoulder and reached for the Bushmaster ACR beneath him. He held it by the pistol grip whilst looking through binoculars; they were approaching…right on time. Disguised as special agents, his men had planted a brilliant piece of false intelligence suggesting that the militia would be moving through this area to try and launch an offensive. Now the enemy had played into their hands and was walking right into the trap. There were at least seventy of them, armed to the teeth with assault rifles, LMGs and high-powered sniper rifles. This sort of enemy had presented itself to Peter Gabriel and his men time and time again, but he knew them, and himself…this battle would end in the militia's favor.

"Pass me the sniper rifle," he asked one of his men. Lewis Wolfe handed Peter an old Springfield 1903 bolt-action rifle. Even though it was more than a hundred years old its accuracy and stopping power were unmatched. A standard hunting scope was mounted on the top and Peter took aim at his first target. The trooper had with him a light machine gun; cutting down the enemy's firepower was essential at the beginnings of a fight.

"All units listen close," Peter leveled the rifle and spoke through his throat mic. "I'll fire first; I want everyone to start with the specialists; gunners, marksmen, etcetera. After I fire the second shot I want all of you to wait seven seconds and open up with everything you have. This force has been chasing us for months; now's our time to pay em back for Fort Carson."

Peter leveled the rifle and took aim, finding the gunner once again. Remembering a line from his favorite movie, he took a deep breath and whispered "Be not that far from me, oh Lord." All was silent. The sound of boots crunching leaves was all that could be heard over the silence. His finger gently touched the trigger. He breathed again and pulled. The booming echo of the rifle scattered the birds and knocked the support gunner on his ass. The other enemy troopers ducked for cover and wildly scanned the area for any sign of where the shot came from. Peter chambered the next round and found a new target. He fired; the thirty-aught-six bullet penetrated the soldier's helmet and killed him instantly.

It didn't take long for the enemy to identify Peter's position and begin taking shots at him. As far as they knew it was only him out there, not fifty armed-to-the-teeth militia men and women. An enemy officer ordered two squads up the right flank to flush Peter out of his position. Of course by the time they began their advance the militia opened up. The soldiers behind them hit the dirt and fired back. A fire fight had broken out in the woods.

The two squads sent to flush out a sniper were stopped in their tracks by a hail of hot lead. Some of them were able to regain their bearings and take cover, others weren't so lucky.

"Second squad flank left!" Peter called to his men, eight of which upped from cover and began a rout maneuver. Three of them were cut down by automatic fire with the others returning fire on the enemy. Peter aimed down the scope of the Springfield and spotted another support gunner making his way around the militia's right flank. He fired and the gunner toppled over like a clumsy ox. Peter chambered the next round and swung his ACR to bear. It was equipped with an Elcan scope, increasing his effective range by more than double. Firing on full automatic he cut down two enemy riflemen before retreating to cover. The deafening rattle of automatic fire was all that could be heard, with some explosions sporadically booming over the forest.

"Fire in the hole!" one of the militia called and lobbed a frag grenade into the enemy position. By the time the enemy soldiers realized the deadly ball of fire it was already too late; the grenade detonated, sending shrapnel, blood, flesh and bone in every direction. Peter ordered his men to advance, many of them upping from cover as the men in the rear provided support fire. Peter fired his ACR on semi automatic, nailing two targets and wounding one. The wounded soldier was quickly put down by a hail of fire as he tried to clutch the area he had been hit.

_Dammit_! Peter said to himself. "_I ordered them not to shoot the wounded_!" There was no time to reprimand his men; not in the middle of battle. Wolfe popped up from cover and fired his black M14 before he was clipped in the shoulder, knocking him on his backside and back to cover.

"Fuck I'm hit!" he screamed. "Oh Jesus!"

"Okay that's it!" Peter ducked and spoke into his throat mic. "Roll em out!" he ordered. Six HUMVEEs rolled to the front of the militia position and opened fire with their fifty cal guns. The enemy had been spooked and began a retreat.

"Okay there they're on the run!" one of the men announced. "Don't let the bastards get away; the chase is on!"

"Medic!" Peter called as he held Lewis in his arms. Daniel Redding who was a former Navy SEAL medical officer ran, slid into cover and went to work immediately on Wolfe's wound. Two other militiamen flanked him.

"How bad is it?" Wolfe asked Dan. "Am I gonna' make it?"

"Just relax, you fucking pansy," Redding told him. "It's a non-lethal penetration and the blood loss is slow; you'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Wolfe asked. "It hurts like a mother fucker!"

"Well yeah generally bullets do," Red replied. "Now hold still so I can stop the bleeding." Red was a very cynical type. He was highly intelligent and even had two master's degrees in medicine and biology. As a former Navy SEAL his contribution to the militia was invaluable; his combat experience and sharp wits made him an essential asset to the war effort.

"Go ahead, sir," Red said to Peter. "I can handle it from here." Peter nodded and ran for the front, which had advanced a good twenty yards or so. As fast as he could he ran for cover in the form of a massive boulder which was already protecting three of his men. He slid in and propped his back against it.

"What's the situation?" he asked the woman next to him, Sharron Decker.

"We killed a whole bunch of them with the HUMVEEs and they fell back to regroup; they're putting up heavy resistance but I think we could send a few squads up the right and have the vehicles charge the position."

"Sounds like a plan," Peter replied and got on the mic again. "Third squad, seventh squad, listen close; find your way around the right and you should be able to flank the enemy; HUMVEEs prepare to charge those positions on my mark; everyone else provide support fire and run them down." Fifteen militiamen began their mad dash for the right flank, heading up an incline and moving far left. Several of them were cut down my machinegun fire. One of the HUMVEEs exploded when a grenade fired from an under slung launcher penetrated the windshield and detonated when it hit one of the fuel lines. Six nearby militia men were also killed by the blast.

"Major," one of the men from third squad contacted Gabriel over the COMM. "We're in position; ready to attack!"

"Alright; HUMVEEs begin the charge!"

"Roger that; we're moving." The vehicles accelerated and the men who had been sent up the right were on the move. The enemy soldiers attempted to suppress the flanking militia but were slaughtered by fifty cal rounds from the HUMVEEs.

"All units, let's finish this," Peter said. "Move up and take aim! It ends here." Without hesitation the remaining militia men ran for the enemy positions and before they knew it were on top of the poor bastards and riddling them with bullets. But before long there were no more enemies left to shoot and the militia were wasting lead by pumping it into the corpses. Peter noticed this and along with some of his most trusted comrades put a stop to it.

"Cut it out! Cut it out!" they yelled over the chatter of automatic weapons. "I said hold your fire, dammit!" The men had released their triggers and were looking towards their commander with uncertain eyes. "How the fuck do you think this is going to look when the media gets a hold of it? It ain't gonna help out the cause, I'll tell you that!" The men couldn't reply or respond; the heat of the moment had gotten to them; red hot blooded passion had taken over and overwhelmed their senses. Had they been the regular army this would not have been a problem; but because they were militia, men who had for so long been branded "domestic terrorists," by their own countrymen, the corporate-controlled media would devour anything that would help to demonize the patriots. Even though the United States military had slaughtered the militias time and time again and _laughed_ about it while the corpses were still warm, they were still portrayed as the good guys.

Peter sat down as the militia began to analyze the aftermath of the battle. This was a victory for them, but to win this war they would need more than that. They would need a miracle. And it was just so that one was on its way…and sooner than most of them thought.

* * *

><p>Fort Sanctum, Venezuela<br>1700 hours

Martin and his remaining men debarked from the Goshawk. Now that they were out of the combat zone they could take in the reality of the fact that nine of their friends were dead. Even Ramirez, who was so pleased at the unexpected destruction of the enemy BTRs at the end of the mission, felt the loss of his friends in his heart. For him, however, the hardest of those losses would be Locke, his fellow engineer. For Martin, every soul lost in combat was irreplaceable. They had all lost friends during the war, but it never got easier to deal with; just easier to cover up.

"Alright, everyone strip your gear and head to the barracks for the rest of the day; you've all earned it." Nathan removed his helmet. He headed to General Goudie's command station to be debriefed. However, he too would have a few words to share with the General; nine of his men were dead and Nate had every intention of getting answers.

He entered the tent, and inside was a large view screen showing a global map highlighted with allied and enemy movements, positions, and territory. General Goudie was conversing with three of his senior officers around a table, going over strategy and discussing the best course of action. The officers dispersed to perform their various tasks, and Goudie looked up at Nate.

"Captain Martin," he said. "I'm in no mood for a lecture."

"So you knew, then," Nathan replied. "You knew it was a wasted effort."

"Not true; we had to make sure the Russians couldn't fortify the town; you didn't let them. Mission accomplished."

"Except now nine of my men are dead."

"Captain, we sustain casualties on every mission; it's the reality of warfare and you should know that better than anyone. Look at this." The General walked over to the main screen with the global map. Martin followed. Goudie motioned to South America. "Across the continent our forces are fighting tooth and nail with the enemy for every centimeter of territory we can; seven battalions are completely surrounded with no means of retreat and are in immediate danger of annihilation.

The Euros have just been kicked out of the Middle East and MEC forces are massing near Europe's southern border, with the Russians overrunning their eastern defenses. In Asia, the Russians are closing in on Beijing and the Chinese are saying that they're drawing out plans for unconditional surrender. As for us, an invasion force is massing in Kamchatka, and is more than likely going to move in through Alaska; we're rowing up shit creek without a paddle."

"So what's our plan of action?" Nate asked.

"General Mitchell is coordinating with the Euros on a strategy; if successful they say we'll regain more than forty percent of the territory we lost to the Russians."

"And if it fails?" the Capitan asked.

"We lose the war."

"That's not good."

"It's not just the Russians we have to worry about, Captain; take a look at this." Goudie picked up a small remote and clicked it once. On the screen, multiple video feeds popped up; men and women in woodland camouflage with mostly boonie hats and various firearms were clashing with US forces in cities, towns, and suburbs. "These are all live feeds."

"Militia, sir?" Nathan asked.

"Local, homegrown United States militia; we've been fighting them since the war began and they decided that the best way to protect the country was to fight the government; we estimate there are more than a million militia men and women active in the US right now, killing more and more of our troops every second, bringing the Russians closer and closer to victory…they're traitors, Captain, and must be dealt with as such."

"Seems more like a job for homeland security than the JSF, sir," Martin replied. "I think my men would be of much more value in Europe or Asia."

"No doubt, DHS was able to deal with them in the early stages of the uprising and we took down the poorly trained ones first; but the ones that survived up till now are highly adaptive; they've out-smarted and out-fought Ghost Recon teams, Captain; lucky for us they've been little more than a thorn in our collective side; we wouldn't want them to become a tack in our big toe, would we?"

"Especially not with the Russians massing for an invasion…what are my orders, sir?" Goudie clicked the remote again and a picture of a modest looking man with a beard and unkempt black hair appeared.

"This is Peter Gabriel; he's the commander of the largest militia force in the United States, operating out of Colorado Springs. He's been running ops throughout the mid-west, supplying the Russians with counter-intelligence and stealing military hardware. Six months ago they raided a vehicle-repair facility and commandeered fifteen Abrams tanks; and less than a week ago they hit an ammo dump and stole more than a billion dollars worth of munitions. This man must be taken out at any cost, Martin."

"How many men does he have under his command?"

"Anywhere between six and eight hundred, many of which are ex-military and Special Forces operators…think you're up to the challenge?"

"It'll be a walk in the park, sir."

"Excellent; we'll be deploying you in thirty six hours; until then take inventory; you're free to use any assets available…get creative."

1500 hours, Vogue Café

* * *

><p>Being the man in charge of all Guard Brigade operations, General Izotov was able to obtain a table no problem. All he had to do was walk in and three people would be eagerly waiting to seat him. A young brunette took his order and disappeared into the kitchen. At that time, Major General Alexi Tatarev entered casually. Tatarev was the Commander of the Spetsnaz Alpha Brigade, the most elite of Russia's Special Forces. The Alpha Brigade was comprised of the very best men and women from every battalion in the SGB, a ferocious fighting force that over the course of the past two years had decimated everything in their path. From infiltration to full scale siege, there was no job too big, or small, for the Alpha Brigade. While it was the men and women who made up the Battalion that did the fighting, their strategic victories were thanks to Tatarev. A true tactical genius, he had never lost a single battle to the United States or Europe, earning him a solid reputation, and immense admiration from his men, and his enemies.<p>

Izotov rose; the two exchanged salutes and sat down. "Glad you could make it," Izotov began. "I'm terribly sorry to have to interrupt your busy schedule, but things have changed."

"The war in Europe is going as well as it can; I don't think my absence will change that any time soon, General. It's not a problem."

"That's good news," Izotov replied. "And I take it morale is high?"

"The troops are more than honored to be fighting for the cause. My boys might not be as idealistic as the regulars, but they do what they need to. All in all, the battle is going smoothly."

"For the time being," the General said. "But something has happened in South America; Colonel Kirelenko was killed this morning."

"You're kidding," Alexi replied in disbelief.

"I'm afraid not. And what's worse is the scalar weapon was destroyed along with his plane."

"The forces of the West are tenacious…bastards." Colonel Savilov joined them, snapping a crisp salute and taking his seat.

"Sorry I'm late, General," he spoke.

"Quite alright," Izotov replied. "Have you two been introduced?"

"I believe not," Tatarev said. The two shook hands and looked back to Izotov. Truth be told, the two commanders had met previously on several occasions. Their battlefield philosophies were vastly different from each others. While Tatarev focused on a good balance and using superior strategy to frustrate and break the will of his enemies, Savilov focused on heavy armor elements, preferring to overwhelm his adversaries with a horde of tanks backed up by artillery support. Both of them were superb tacticians, but their ideals often clashed, and lead to one or more falling-outs.

The waitress came by again, delivering Izotov's coffee. Tatarev and Savilov both ordered different items, and once again the young woman disappeared into the commotion.

"Gentlemen," Izotov spoke. "I've asked both of you here on a matter of urgent importance; I've briefed both of you on the situation, and hopefully the both of you understand the magnitude of what has happened."

"Absolutely, sir," Savilov replied. Tatarev nodded.

"We've lost our most valuable trump card in this war; the black weapon was our key to ending this conflict, and without it the balance has shifted in favor of our enemies." The two Commanders acknowledged Izotov's statement. "So now we have two choices; find an alternative, or fight this war conventionally, which will require more troops, machines and years in order to win."

"What are our orders, sir?" Tatarev asked. The waitress returned, handed the men their drinks, and vanished. Izotov picked up his briefcase from the floor, opened it, and passed six photos to both of the commanders. The photos were that of the Large Hadron Collider, the world's largest particle accelerator. The two men scrutinized the pictures with excruciating detail.

"Several years ago this structure was built in order to unlock the deepest secrets of the laws of nature. Five years ago they found something new, something…terrifying." Savilov and Tatarev were now thoroughly intrigued. They both leaned in closer. "They figured out a way to create a weapon using antimatter; we don't know much about it, and that needs to change."

"Sir, if I may," Savilov spoke. "This facility is located in neutral territory in Switzerland."

Izotov leaned back in his chair. "Before the war began two years ago, the Swiss government issued a statement saying they would allow the European Federation to guard and defend the facility. According to latest intel, the only people working there are Federation scientists and a small security detail."

"So where do we stand?" Tatarev asked. Izotov unfolded a small map and laid it out in front of them.

"The facility is located here," he pointed to the Franco-Swiss border near Geneva. "Major General, you will put together a task force that will infiltrate the facility and gather the information we need. Your operation will be heavily infantry-based, so you'll need your best men." Izotov looked to Colonel Savilov. "Colonel, your task will be a diversion; you will launch a massive assault on an enemy fortified position in Austria; that will draw their attention. Then Tatarev will give his men the okay to proceed with the mission fifteen minutes after Colonel Savilov makes contact with the enemy."

"That way all possible attention is diverted to his attack," Tatarev spoke.

"Precisely."

"Will we be receiving any backup?" Savilov asked. "Will we have access to force recon or air support? My men can only accomplish so much by themselves."

"The Air Force has offered to lend us assets near the area; a group of strike-fighters will be on station at all times. The Army will provide you with infantry and armor as well. Those assets will be on standby until prompted.

The both of you are free to use any methods you deem necessary, but I want to see results; if we fail this operation the end of the war could arrive sooner than expected…and not in our favor."

* * *

><p>Qashqadaryo Province, New Russian Republic<br>SGB Forward Operating Base (FOB)

Sergeant Artyom Tumanbai sat at the armory going through the various components of his AK-200. It was an exceptional rifle, no doubt. The overall design from the AK-74 had remained virtually untouched, but many external features had been introduced for the sake of the operator; a telescopic buttstock, picatinny rails for mounting accessories, and possibly one of the most valuable features of all, a sixty round casket magazine. These new mags were somewhat bulky and cumbersome, but the added firepower was an easy tradeoff. Not only that, but the rifle was fully modular. At any moment Artyom could swap out the bolt head, barrel and magazine and re-chamber to the 7.62x39mm round, which was both convenient and cost effective; munitions plants could essentially build two rifles for the price of one this way.

For the most part the Sergeant preferred the 5.45x39mm cartridge because of its lightweight and controllability on full automatic, even though he often found himself having to take the time to aim for the head due to lack of stopping power; on more than a few occasions the round had literally _bounced _off of enemy armor, but when it penetrated flesh it caused immense damage; wounded soldiers are harder to take care of than dead ones. It was a harsh concept, but then again war is harsh reality. Artyom had lost too many friends to count in the last two years, and not all of them were soldiers. When the war began and the Euros invaded the Motherland a group of them broke into his brother Shamshi's house, raped and killed his wife, and slaughtered his two children before finally taking him out back and shooting him in the head. The fuckers made him _watch_ as his family was killed in front of him.

For that Artyom had no pity for the men he killed…and he had killed _plenty_ of them, both Americans and Europeans. The Eastern countries that had merged with Russia did so because of Western aggression, for fear that they would become slaves to the will of the EU or NATO. Russia hadn't said a damn word to convince the eastern countries to merge with them, it was strictly voluntary. But the New Republic offered something that the west did not; freedom. The nations lost their sovereignty, but the people had gained access to unprecedented civil liberty. And unlike the United States which _claimed _to be a nation of free men, the NRR actually was. They had been criticized for the arms buildup that had occurred, but the citizens of Russia understood that it was necessary in order to preserve the nation…and they had done it without having to compromise the interests of the people. Of course, that didn't stop the west from demonizing them.

At the beginning of the twenty-first century Russia was a dying nation; shunned, oppressed and practically lying on its death bed. It was a nation plagued by discrimination, racism, an aging population and massive corruption within the government, especially the military. Millennia of living under a Czar or Dictator or King had left the people with a bitter taste and utter complacency. When the Libertarian party began to take shape and recognition, things changed. The people didn't have to live under government rule, nor did they need to let the country die; it was truly a revolution and one that had never been seen before in Russia. The enlightened masses began to understand how precious and wonderful true freedom actually was, and rather than simply being contempt with a life of mediocrity, they stood up and demanded real change. The Libertarians gave them that change; change everyone could believe in. At first it seemed too good to be true, but the policies and rules underlined in the _New Constitution_ ensured that the government would serve only the interests of the people and protect them from foreign invaders. Everyone from Parliament to the President served a limited term of two and six years, respectively. The men and women who made up the Russian Parliament were given a single two year term each, the idea being that long-term power lead to corruption. Parliament members could also not be preconditioned by other members prior to their terms, nor could they given "special privileges" such as pay raises, retirement funds or healthcare just because they served. The President held one six year term so he or she could focus on current issues rather than reelection. The government could not be given "special powers" during time of crisis. It wasn't a perfect system, but it made sure that the people came first.

Personally, Artyom didn't care that much. During the Revolution he was serving in the Kazakhstan army; he never had high ambitions, he just wanted to make a living as a regular soldier. It just so happened, however, that he was a cut above the others, graduating top of his class and, once Kazakhstan merged with Russia, qualifying for the Guard Brigade immediately. Most Spetsnaz didn't care too much for the cause of liberty. Sure the Army regulars had their ideals and were more than happy to wave the flag and sing the national anthem after every major victory, but the truth was that the Spetsnaz were so focused on doing their job that they left little room for national pride. Artyom firmly believed that accomplishing the mission was all that mattered, even if it meant dying to complete it. This was true among most SGB operators. But the one thing he couldn't wait for was to see the Russian flag flying over Paris as it burned to the ground. The Americans were his enemies, but the Euros were a mortal foe, and he enjoyed killing them more and more every time he was deployed. If the higher-ups hadn't forbidden the troops to fire on civilians, he would have gladly opened up on full-automatic the second a crowd grew near. That was just him, though, and his thirst for vengeance.

In his jacket pocket was a picture of him and his brother. Around them were Shamshi's wife and two kids, their mother and father and a pit-bull named Kirk. That was three years ago. It was also the last time Artyom had smiled. Nowadays all he felt was cold bitterness and conviction, an emptiness that could never be filled, a pain that could never be forgotten. As he looked at the picture he began to shake with rage. _I promise you_, he said to himself, _that no matter how hard it gets, no matter how long it takes…I will avenge you, Shamshi…I swear I will_.

He put the picture calmly back in his pocket; it was only a matter of time before he crushed it. It was painful to look at, but Artyom was keeping a precious memory alive by doing so. That picture was among the very few things Shamshi left behind.

"I need to blow off some steam," he said and picked up his rifle. Walking for the armory he picked up four magazines equaling a hundred eighty rounds. Around the shooting range were other SGB practicing with their various firearms. The standard rifle for the SGB "Wolves" was the AK-200, with the Ukrainian-built Vepr being available by choice of the operator. The AK-200 was little different from its predecessor, the only difference being a wide array of easily attachable accessories and an improved muzzle break. For section support the newer PKP could lay down a heavy volume of fire and was preferred over the PKM for its distinction. Spetsnaz sharpshooters utilized the VSS "Vintorez" sniper system and the new OSV-120 12.7mm fifty-cal for anti-vehicle purposes. The MP-443 "Grach" was the standard-issue sidearm of all branches.

The engineers or "Bears" were equipped with the new Mini Kornet-K missile launcher, essentially an RPG with guided rockets and fire-and-forget programming. As far as self-defense went, the engineers preferred the AK-102 or a PP-2000 submachine gun when carrying lots of explosives; if needed they could also use the newer PP-3000 which was essentially a PPsH-41 modernized for general use in the SGB. Using the same overall design but upgraded with picatinny rails and a solid black finish, the PP-3000 was the closest thing one could get to a Pulse rifle. It was universally loved by the Bears and even the Wolves.

These were all of course, official weapons of the SGB; operators could chose any weapons available to them upon request, even weapons like the AN-94 which was standard issue in the Army and Marines.

Artyom loaded the first magazine. Mounted on his rifle was a derivative of the GP-30 grenade launcher upgraded for use with picatinny rails, a 3x magnifying scope and a flashlight on the left of the hand guard. He pulled the charging handle and let loose, spewing 5.45mm rounds at a fearsome rate of eight hundred fifty rounds per minute. Unlike previous AK designs, the 200 remained cool on full automatic fire, even though the Sergeant had just blown through sixty rounds; one could touch the barrel and the firing pin without getting burned because of the new improvements, which was needless to say, extremely valuable on the field…not that AKs ever had malfunction problems in the past.

He loaded the second mag and selected semi-automatic to practice his headshot technique that was so essential on the field. This was particularly annoying since it forced Artyom to steady himself and focus on making a very precise hit. Luckily the AK-200 was accurate enough to cut that burden in half. Over the years a number of improvements had been made to the standard ammunition to increase stopping power, and it was definitely more powerful than it had been fifty years ago, but the advent of newer armor like Dragon skin made the improvements…subtle.

Discarding the empty mag and loading the next one, Artyom was about to take aim when a young Lieutenant Tanya Kostyk approached from behind.

"Sergeant," she ordered him to attention. Artyom safetied his weapon and laid it on its side, turning around and saluting the Lieutenant. "At ease, I'm just here to talk."

"Well then make it quick," he told her in complete disregard for her superior rank. Tanya felt the venom in his words. She understood that Artyom had been in service for way longer than she had; hell, if this had been anyone else she would have eaten them alive for such insubordination. But she had much respect for this man.

"Listen, orders just came down from Tatarev; we're to be deployed soon."

"Where to?" Artyom asked.

"Neutral territory in Switzerland; I haven't got all the details yet, but its going to be some sort of search and retrieval assignment. Captain Kozlov wants you in the retrieval team with me."

"Do I get to chose anyone to bring along? I would be more certain of success if a few of my men came with us since we're going this deep behind enemy lines."

"Kozlov told me you could choose two of your men to accompany us. Don't think too hard about it, though; supposedly there's just a small security detail inside the facility we'll be raiding…and I know you're boys are good. Their Sergeant keeps them on their toes." Artyom appreciated her comment, he really did; but he just couldn't find it in his soul to smile or give a thank you. The best he could muster up was a slight nod and continued the conversation.

"Any idea as to when we're leaving?" he asked.

"Two days from now on the thirtieth at nineteen hundred."

"Then I'll pick my men and see you in two days?"

"Sounds good to me, Sergeant." The two saluted each other and the Lieutenant walked away. Artyom picked up his rifle and continued his session. The few details of the mission that had been presented didn't faze him much; he had been deployed on Search and Retrieval missions many times before. Whereas most soldiers would be attempting to fill in the blanks and form and a hypothesis about the mission ahead, the Sergeant was focused on his current session. Honestly, he didn't care that much; true it was an opportunity to kill more of the Euro bastards, but in the long run this mission didn't bring him any closer to Paris…or so he thought.

* * *

><p>Fort Sanctum, Venezuela<p>

"I swear I better get some sort of fucking medal for today," Ramirez bellyached as he and the others were taking inventory for the upcoming assignment.

"No one's giving you a medal for doing your job, Ramirez," Hayder told him as he was typing away on a laptop, writing up the report for the day's mission. "Make sure we've got plenty of fire and forget munitions on the trip to Colorado."

"Yeah, yeah I got it," he said. Captain Martin entered the armory, now fully stripped of his gear. He sat down next to Hayder, put on his reading glasses and continued reviewing the upcoming assignment.

"General Goudie says I've got full operation jurisdiction; we're free to use whatever we deem necessary…now I've got more bodies than I know what to do with."

"How many?"

"Two hundred infantry, about four dozen armor, plus air support."

"Ha! Bastards ain't gonna know what hit 'em." Martin smiled and continued his examination of the documents handed to him my General Goudie. Among the contents of the files were a list of the militia men and women and records of their civilian and/or military pasts. General Goudie wasn't kidding when he said that many of them were ex-military; over half the people on this damn list had served before. It didn't make sense…why would they fight for their country only to betray it during its hour of need? Nathan understood that the security measures imposed at the beginning of the century compromised civil liberty and violated constitutional law, but it was necessary to keep the population safe. They lived in an era where a fist-sized bomb could destroy an entire city block; and there were plenty of terrorist groups who were more than willing to give their lives to kill innocent Americans. And these militia, these so-called "freedom fighters" had the nerve to fight the government that was trying to protect them. Truth be told, it enraged Martin.

In the documents was also the supposed motivation of the militia. As he read over the various pages and saw all of the usual motifs; unconstitutional government, laws and practices, but there was something else there as well. The term kept repeating itself within the documents, but aside from the three words, there was no indication to what it really meant. _Militia groups have taken up arms against the federal government for fear of a New World Order_. New World Order…what the hell did that mean? Although the term was vague in Martin's mind, he automatically linked it to conspiracy theorists like Alex Jones and Jesse Ventura. It was also somewhat synonymies with that Texas governor Ron Paul who was killed a few years back.

This had peaked Martin's interests. On his laptop he opened a video feed to General Goudie.

"Yes Captain, what do you need?" he asked.

"General I'm looking over these files and I keep seeing the term New World Order…what is it?" The General paused for a split second.

"It's nothing," he said. "It's a fairy tale, an urban legend…it's of no concern, Captain." Goudie closed the feed and Martin was left with nothing but his thoughts. This had to mean something…the term just kept repeating itself within the documents. However Nathan still had a mission to prepare for and like it or not, these men were his enemies. So he pushed the thought to the back of his head and continued on with his current duties. This issue would have to wait.

Martin got up and proceeded to the many aisles of weapons within the small facility. The JSF "Ghosts", like the Spetsnaz and Enforcer Corps had a variety of weapons available for use. The primary service rifles of the JSF were the XMX and SCAR-A1. These 6.8mm assault rifles struck up a good balance of stopping power and light-weight; the 6.8mm SPC was designed to penetrate body armor and tumble upon impact of flesh, creating an immense wound. Combined with the most advanced and accurate rifles in the American arsenal, the bullet's true potential could only be unlocked by the tech-savvy warrior of the twenty-first century. Martin himself preferred the XMX for its sleek design and unparalleled accuracy. Also available but rarely used was the MR-C rifle, which fired caseless ammunition.

Marksmen in the Force used the JSF DMR (Designated Marksmen Rifle), which was a bullpup sniper rifle that fired the same ammunition as standard assault rifles, or the M120 fifty cal, which was generally used for anti-material purposes. For section support, the M250 automatic rifle was a variant of the classic M249 modified for JSF use.

JSF "Pioneers" in their traditional role of heavy infantry, preferred lighter weapons like the AA-12 auto-assault shotgun or the Kriss Super V. For their main role the Pioneers utilized the AT5CQ rocket launcher, a nasty man-portable beast that could put a round clean through a Russian T-90. It was also an effective anti-aircraft platform when going up against enemy gunships. Pioneers had access to the APE-1A2 powered exoskeleton, a revolutionary new system designed to allow the user to carry more than triple their bodyweight, making the burden of heavy gear and explosives practically non-existent. But when extra firepower was truly needed, the Pioneers could combine their exoskeletons and an M26B minigun and essentially transform themselves into a walking gun turret. This mini gun could lay down a bullet storm of 6.8mm lead at a thousand rounds per minute. A holographic Heads Up Display (HUD) allowed the user to target enemy infantry and drones without having to aim down an iron sight…the beast practically operated itself.

"So what's the deal with these militias anyway?" Sophie asked. "What are they fighting for?"

"They're all fucking crazy," Ramirez replied, obnoxiously. "They think the whole damn world is conspiring against them to take away their guns and freedom…fucking idiots."

"Well the constitution has been…ignored for the last twenty years…I can see why they'd be upset."

"Hey Sophie," Ramirez said. "Weren't you there on nine eleven? If we had had these unconstitutional policies before that day, we could have saved thousands of lives, and yet these idiots get all butt-hurt when they see increased security at an airport? You would think denying terrorists the ability to sneak bombs on a plane would be a good thing."

"Yeah, but…"

"What are you on their side or something!"

"I never said that!" the young Sergeant protested. "All I'm saying is that…maybe there's a different way to go about this…like maybe if the pilot was allowed to carry a pistol or something."

"Personally, I don't think civilians have any right owning guns," Pedersen cut in. "The last thing we need is a bunch of fucking lunatics running rampant with assault rifles preaching about how their rights are being stolen…what a fucking joke." Ramirez laughed and high-fived Pedersen; Lieutenant Hayder looked up from the desk impatiently.

"Hey, cut the crap," he told them. "Respect your enemies; the militia are no pushovers…word has it they've been able to out smart even Ghost Recon teams." Ramirez scoffed in blatant disregard for the fact.

"Look, man, I only gotta know one thing," he said. "Where they are, and when they'll be there."

"That's two things, you fucking idiot," Sophie corrected him, invoking snickers and various chuckles throughout the room. Ramirez became flustered and red in the face.

"Bite me," he said. "I'm sick of sitting around here anyway."

* * *

><p>Chapter two complete. This was largely a filler chapter, to flesh out the plot and introduce some of the characters. More characters will enter in chapter three, and that will most likely be the last of them...the last of the major ones, at least. As always, review and critique are greatly appreciated!<p>

**UPDATE, 8/24/11**: I edited the last part of this chapter out: I was having a really hard time with the third chapter based on where I chose to leave this one off. Just sayin'...

-Bloodmark Mentor


	3. Chapter 3: Deception

Authors Note: I changed the ending of chapter two. Not much, I just took out the last paragraph where Fort Sanctum came under attack. I found I was having an extremely difficult time picking up where I left off; I actually rewrote this chapter about four times before I came up with content I was satisfied with, and to be honest I'm not too happy with this one. I just wanted to push through it so I could get the story rolling again, although something tells me chapter four might be difficult to work with as well. This one has been a long time coming; the last chapter was uploaded in May of this year and for all its faults I put a lot of work into this chapter. For those of you who actually show interest in this fic, I apologize. I hope you enjoy chapter three.

* * *

><p>Fort Sanctum, Venezuela<p>

Eighteen Eleven Hundred Hours, July 30th

Less than twenty-eight hours ago, more than two hundred Joint Strike Force personnel had arrived at Fort Sanctum, all under Nathan Martin's command. They were fresh out of the Middle East where they had beaten MEC forces to a pulp on the Syria-Turkey-Iraq border after they tried to push into Turkey to try and gain a foothold in Europe. Throughout the last two years the European Military had been in charge of most of the fighting in the Middle East. Middle East Coalition forces received a lot of their weapons from Russia and were fiercely anti-west. As such, the European Federation invaded with the goal of taking out Russia's only significant ally in the war, and also using the many MEC military bases as staging areas for preemptive attacks on the Motherland.

At first, Coalition forces were battered by the European Military and suffered heavy losses. Forced to retreat, MEC forces formed a powerful defense two hundred miles outside Riyadh, the Coalition's de facto capital city. However less than a year ago, it was revealed that MEC had been saving its best forces and gathering their battle-hardened troops, combining them into large battle groups and awaiting the right moment for a counter-offensive. As fortune would have it the Euros, using extremely poor judgment, diverted a good portion of their forces to Eastern Europe to fight the Russians. MEC took advantage of this and launched a massive counter-attack, and just last week, had taken back all of the land lost to the invaders. Needless to say, this was extremely problematic.

"You know," Martin said to Hayder as he viewed his men from a window in the barracks. "It's funny; the guys we fought in Iraq and Afghanistan ten years ago became soldiers in the Coalition…and the ones we fought along_side _became officers."

"Yeah what else is new?" the Lieutenant replied with cynicism. "I guess that's the reward we get for training and arming the fuckers." Indeed this did seem like a recurring theme throughout the 20th century, such as the United States arming the Afghani Mujahideen to fight the Soviets only to have them "retaliate" for it twenty years later.

"So first we need replacements for our platoon; the guys we lost two days ago," Hayder said. Nathan never liked the word replacement…how could he replace those who had given their all and sacrificed so much? Those who had fallen under his command were better men than he would ever be. But Martin swallowed his pity. He had to because at the moment he had no other choice.

"Have you reviewed their records? Who's the best marksman in the group?"

"It's a three-way tie between Private Carter, Corporal Watkins and Private Malone; all of them have over twenty confirmed, but Carter has the most headshots and Malone has the longest shot on record…seventeen hundred yards."

"Let's take Carter in our squad," Martin replied. "We're not gonna' need extreme long range for this one. What about engineers?"

"I suggest Corporal Reeves; I was watching his helmet cam footage, and he's quite an artist with an AT5; took down a KA-65 at over two hundred yards with it."

"Excellent," Martin said. "And we'll need three more riflemen to accompany us…just gimme' the best ones you can find."

"Roger that," Hayder said. Martin walked outside of the barracks. Most of the men were out of gear and going about their various tasks; inventory check, vehicle maintenance and whatnot. At the same time though, Martin couldn't help but notice the Army regulars stationed at Fort Sanctum. There had always been rivalries between the branches of the military but the JSF had created some fierce tension between individuals and groups of soldiers. The Joint Strike Force was an elite corps; men and women who had been through extensive training and combat. The qualifying factors included at least five years in one of the service branches and an additional five in its Special Operations Force. Once a recruit qualified and was selected for training, he or she would be stripped of rank and put through a twelve week course that was designed to help foster cooperation between the men and women of the various branches while sharpening the skills of the soldiers; therefore the men and women who graduated already had extensive training under their belts before they even put on the JSF uniform. As such, they were often referred to by the regulars as "the pre-Madonna squad." To Nathan, they were just jealous.

The JSF were the greatest military force in the history of mankind; a force of battle-hardened and highly-trained operatives that could be deployed anywhere in the world in less than twenty-four hours, projecting a massive amount of power including main battle tanks and advanced strike-fighters. True, Europe had the Enforcers Corps and Russia had the Spetsnaz Guard Brigade, but to Martin, those two _paled_ in comparison to the JSF. He was _damn_ proud of be a member of this fighting force.

Sergeant Duvall was spouting orders to her men. The walked off and the Captain approached her. She was only a few inches shorter than him, with brown hair and purple eyes…she was quite a looker; ironic considering she'd killed more men than most women even _meet_ in their lifetimes. She was stripped of her gear and was wearing a brown t-shirt and standard JSF camo pants, which was a sort of desert camouflage.

"Good to see at least _someone_ pulling their own weight around here," he said with a smile.

"Yeah well if we left everything up to you, nothing would ever get done," she joked.

"Well then it's a good thing I know how to pick my officers," Nathan said. "Now I can have you do all of my paperwork for me." She laughed and turned to face him. She was still smiling, as was he.

"Oh so is _that_ how this works?"

"Yep," he replied, looking down at her. "I thought it was kind of like an unspoken mutuality."

"Well lucky for you, I'm a genius when it comes to this sort of thing. So step aside and I'll show you how to do this, son." Sophie grew up in Harlem for a good portion of her life. Her street-tude, as she called it, hadn't worn off since then. Nathan, on the other hand, grew up in Northern-Ohio in a suburb. Born into a military family, Martin had pretty much decided his fate before he graduated middle school. His family's military history dated all the way back to the French and Indian War; to chose any other career than enlistment would have been a disgrace to his entire family line, especially after 9/11. Of course, that wasn't to say _everyone _in the Martin family had chosen a life of service. Nathan's Brother George enlisted for five years and then opened a restaurant. Hell, even his own Father had ten years of service under his belt and retired and opened a clock/piano repair shop. Needless to say, keeping a girlfriend at a young age was difficult for Nathan…all of the military memorabilia and loaded rifles lying around the house was unsettling for most.

"Listen, Captain," she said with an air of uncertainty. "I don't like this mission…I don't like that we're going after our own people."

"If given the chance they'd kill us," Martin replied. "These aren't our men, these are traitors. They've turned away from their colors and abandoned their nation in its time of need."

"But I've been doing some digging, Captain," she said. "What if our government's dealings aren't to keep the people safe? What if everything that's happened in the last twenty years was all a plot?"

"We don't get paid to think, Sergeant; much less to come up with conspiracy theories. I'd suggest you put this out of your mind and focus on the mission." The young Sergeant looked scared, which Martin had never seen on her before. She placed her teeth on her lower lip and her eyes rotated to the right as she zoned out.

"What's wrong?" Marin asked.

"I just feel like its all gone wrong…this isn't the way it should be, Captain."

"Listen," he said to her and put his hand on her shoulder. "If you're that uncomfortable I'll pull you from the op." She looked up to him in surprise. She had never heard of this happening in the twelve plus years she'd been in service; her commanding officer was giving her an _option_. While Martin had no problem going through with this, he could tell the young Sergeant was having a hard time swallowing this pill. His initial thought was to proceed with the mission and allow Duvall time to come to terms with what had to be done. But that was before he saw how nervous she was…there was uncertainty in her eyes, which he didn't see on her two days ago, even with a horde of tanks and infantry swarming the beach and the odds stacked against them a hundred to one. Before every mission, even though Martin would never tell this to anyone under his command, he always looked to Sophie because oddly enough her expression often foretold the outcome of each engagement. When she was bold and cracked jokes, chances of success were high; when she was focused and put on the thousand-yard stare, casualties would be fierce and the mission would be difficult…but victory would be achieved. Never once had he seen uncertainty on her, and it chilled him to the bone at the thought of what it could mean.

"Thank you, Captain," she said with the uncertainty still abundantly clear. "But I know my duty…there's no escaping an assignment…I have to get back to work, sir." The Sergeant turned back to her clipboard and Martin walked away. Now that he had seen Sophie's uncertainty, he himself became…anxious. It had been a very long time since he had felt this way…he may have been a Regular in Iraq the last time he was nervous. He tried to shake it off and stay focused on his current task; he had less than twenty four hours to get his men ready before they debarked for Colorado. Still, this sinking feeling wouldn't leave him alone…what the hell did it mean?

* * *

><p>Franco-Swiss Border, European Federation.<br>Five miles outside Large Hadron Collider facility, Nineteen Hundred Hours

Sergeant Tumanbai and his squad had gone prone underneath the bushes, the darkness of the night enveloping their bodies and cloaking their presence. Three other squads had been inserted in various locations around the facility by an MI-55 Locust transport heli. Being this deep behind enemy lines wasn't the least bit unsettling for the Sergeant. To be quite frank he'd probably spent more time in enemy territory than in friendly. Right now he was focused to the point of tunnel vision. Silently he craved for his first kill, but he understood that if he let his anger and passion get the best of him he would die tonight, and he couldn't let that happen. He'd come too far to let that happen _here_.

"This is Deerhound," Captain Kozlov reported over the COMM. "All squads report in."

"This is Death's Head," Artyom replied. "We're in position, awaiting orders."

"Redfang reporting in, no problems yet."

"This is Ironclaw, in position."

"Roger; all teams Operation Excalibur is go. Move in to mission formation." Artyom and his men upped from under the bush and the Sergeant activated his night-vision goggles and pulled them over his face. They moved through the lightly dense woods like ghosts, scanning for any sign of movement. The other squads were mere miles from each other, so if they came across anyone else they had instant permission to engage. Artyom and his boys were fielding silenced weapons with a variety of attachments. The Sergeant had his AK-200 downrange, and two of his men had the same weapon with the same accessories. One of them was using a silenced Vepr with a GP-30, a red-dot scope and a silencer, and the squad's sharpshooter was fielding the VSS Vintorez sniper rifle. All of them were wearing the newer SGB BDU's; flora pattern tiger-stripe camo with khaki ammo vests and black balaclava. One or two of them wore helmets; Artyom did not.

"Man what are we doing out here?" one of his men asked the squad quietly. "This deep behind enemy lines in neutral territory? The Amero media is gonna' have a field day with this." Amero was a slang term for the Americans and the Europeans as a whole. It was coined out of a defunct name of the currency that would have been used by the failed North American Union and was used throughout the Russian military when discussing the enemy.

"Listen," Artyom said. "I couldn't give less of a fuck about what the enemy says about this and neither should you. This is our mission; we go in there, get what we need and get out. That's it; end of discussion." His men went silent. It was an unspoken rule of thumb to never talk back when the Sergeant ended the conversation. While Artyom would never harm his fellow soldiers, he had no problem asserting his authority over them. The men under his command had learned a loyalty and trust of the Sergeant that few other officers had achieved. His squads had the lowest mortality rate in the entire Alpha Brigade; that was the second thing he lived for: keeping his men alive. They had families to go home to; they had children to support, wives and husbands to love, and legacies to fulfill; and he wanted almost as much as anything to ensure that those families wouldn't be robbed of a loved one, so that last chair at dinner would be filled, that a boy might see his father and a mother might see her son once more. That was a big part of his mission. No one should have had to go through what he had suffered.

But, Artyom understood that in war, mercy was an alien concept. He had heard their stories; the young men and women who passed SGB training and had fought and died under his command. He could remember everything about them…where they were born, when they enlisted, their age, service numbers, names, birthdays and bad habits…to say that the Sergeant had no heart was an untrue assumption…he had had a heart once, but it had long since decayed under the constant anguish and misery that had taken residence within him. He could feel it in his flesh, his bones and muscles; it was conviction. It was determination. But most of all…it was hatred. No mercy, no justice, no excuse for the wicked. They had to die…every last one of them.

"Sergeant!" one of his men quietly exclaimed. "Contact, eighty meters, three o'clock; four tangos." Artyom held up his fist and crouched and his men followed suit, two of them going prone. Through his night vision goggles Artyom could see the targets clearly; they were European Army regulars lightly armed with AUG-A5's, which were new variants of the A3 chambered for newer 7x43 millimeter ammo. They were conversing and seemed to be off their guard; a grave mistake on their part.

Artyom raised his weapon to the head of his target. "Smoke em." He said and fired a single round that connected to the head of the enemy trooper, his men following suit with the remaining three.

"Enemy neutralized." One of his men confirmed. It was odd seeing European troops out here; according to intelligence there was supposed to be no more than a security detail inside the facility. Of course, that's not to say intelligence reports were ever perfect.

"Come on," Artyom said as he got up. "We don't have time to waste."

* * *

><p>Klagenfurt, Austria<p>

Colonel Savilov's men had been engaged in combat for about ten minutes and they were already smashing the European defenses outside the city. They'd ripped through several columns of Leopard tanks and were engaging the next wave already. Russian Army infantry were beginning to move into the city limits, covered by Savilov's artillery. A new wave of European tanks and infantry was moving to meet them, but Savilov's T-100's would make quick work of the inferior Leopards.

"Target at nine o'clock, two hundred fifty meters."

"Another one to the left; rotate the cannon thirty degrees. FIRE!"

"Got a new wave bearing three four zero; we're rolling in hot to engage them."

Savilov had lost three of his tanks so far, but his men managed to pick off more than twelve. Based on the current radio chatter the infantry were advancing with mixed results.

"Second squad you're too far out front!"

"No use, we can't retreat!"

"Enemy position silenced; send two squads left while we take the middle."

"Artillery units, concentrate a portion of your fire here!"

"Dammit we just lost another squad; we need some back up!"

"Bison," Savilov radioed one of his tank units from within his Command Support Vehicle. "Move in to support the infantry; they're taking a beating from those machine gun emplacements; War Pig, cover them."

"Roger that," Bison's tank commander replied. "We're on the prowl." The column of tanks roared through the fields outside the city and opened up on the European emplacements, decimating them in mere seconds, giving the infantry a hole to punch through.

"Colonel," one of his officers inside the vehicle said. "Enemy fast-movers inbound bearing two five nine at mach one-five; ten miles out."

"Much obliged, Second Lieutenant," Savilov replied and opened a channel to an Air Force Colonel. "Wing Leader, do you have a ping on those bogies?"

"That's affirmative, Colonel," the deep-voiced pilot replied. "All planes, splash those bandits." A mass of fifty SU and MIG 35's along with some SU-30's joined up in attack formation, letting loose with a volley of missiles which was returned by the European aircraft consisting of Typhoons, Rafales and Tornado ADV's. The hectic long-range air battle caused many planes to explode and rain debris on the ground forces below while some planes crash landed, spewing fire and smoke and shrapnel in every direction.

"Colonel Savilov this is Lieutenant Zauer; we can't advance unless we deal with enemy armored assets and emplacements, we've already lost several units to machine gun fire. How copy, over?"

"Savilov copies all, Lieutenant; tell your men to stay put; help is on the way."

"Roger, we'll do our best but try to make it quick. I don't know how much longer we're gonna' last out here." The Colonel turned around in his chair to the holographic display of the battlefield; from there he could issue orders in real time to his units with a quick move of his hand. He zoomed back on the map; he had positioned eight artillery pieces far behind his troops; KV-20 Zhukov's with twin guns and chemical shells. He touched the hologram, rotated to the position of the machinegun emplacements, circled it and tapped it.

"Fire mission received," the Zhukov operator replied. "Artillery inbound." The eight guns fired two shells each. They arced across the field with deadly speed and accuracy, crashing into the emplacements and tanks, opening a new hole for the infantry.

"Okay there it is, there it is!" one of the officers shouted. "We got an opening, move; move; move!" Savilov's tanks destroyed the remaining enemy armor and the Euros were in retreat mode. The Air Force was still engaged with enemy fighters and a new wave of bogies was inbound for the city.

"I've got more enemies on radar; looks like twenty plus Gripens."

"This is bad; we're surrounded."

"Don't sweat it, it's just business as usual; Boyar squadron turning to engage enemy interceptors."

Savilov checked the holographic map; the troops were advancing at a steady pace and the infantry was already entering the city. However protocol dictated that the men not fire the city or the civilians deliberately, making the situation extremely tricky because the Euros had learned to exploit that advantage. Inside the city European troops were directing civilians to safety areas and transport helicopters were airlifting loads of them out. Local police forces had set up barricades and checkpoints where civvies would present their ID's. The bulk of the European armor and troops had since fallen back to these checkpoints and were digging in for a defense.

Not much later the Russian infantry had entered the city with Savilov's tanks flanking. On the holomap Savilov noted numerous enemy tank positions in addition to infantry that were holed up in the surround buildings. He ordered his artillery to fire on the tanks. A new wave of precision shells slammed into the positions.

"Enemy position silenced!" an officer remarked over the radio. "Move up! Second squad, give us covering fire!" All around the city the troops were laying waste to the enemy. Now it was up to General Tatarev's men to secure the information from the LHC facility and this op would be a success. Then Savilov would pull out his men and leave the rest to the Army.

* * *

><p>Something wasn't right. Since they began, Artyom and his squad had run into three additional patrols which was bad news not only because of the present danger they posed but because if enough of the patrols went silent the enemy would send out heavier and more numerous forces. But on the flip side of the coin if they let the enemy go they would find the bodies of the other patrols…lucky for Artyom the facility was not far off.<p>

"Deerhound this is Death's Head," the Sergeant called Kozlov over the mic.

"Go ahead, Sergeant."

"Intel was off, we've run into several patrols since we began; how copy, over?"

"Affirmative, we've seen 'em too, Sergeant. Just try to evade them for now; the facility isn't far from here."

"Roger that; Death's Head out."

It wasn't long before the Sergeant and his squad reached their destination. They ran into a small trench behind some bushes, unspotted in the darkness. Artyom poked his head up ever so slightly to get a better look at the facility. There was a small barricade set up with a security checkpoint. A barbed wire fence was built along the perimeter of the entrance with guard towers set up along the wall. Spotlights swept the area around the facility every few seconds.

"This place is way more heavily guarded than they said," one of Artyom's men remarked.

"Doesn't matter," the Sergeant replied. "We still gotta' get this done, with our without accurate Intel." Artyom was looking through his binoculars; the men at the security checkpoint were lightly armed with submachine guns and level one body armor. The guys in the tower wielded semi-automatic sniper rifles and night vision goggles. There was even a machine gun nest directly behind the security checkpoint, but it was nothing the Wolves couldn't take care of. At that same time the other squads would be infiltrating from various positions.

"Deerhound this is Death's Head," Artyom spoke on the COMM. "We're in position, awaiting your go."

"Roger Death's Head, the other squads are in position; you may commence battle."

"Okay," he said snapping into combat mode and unhooked a grenade from his vest. "You follow me; we're gonna' take out the guards in front and make a move on the machine gun," he said pointing to the Wolf with the Vepr. "You two suppress the gunners until we're in position," he said looking at the Wolves with the AK-200's. "And you take out the guard towers," he finally looked to his sharp shooter. Artyom pulled the pin on his grenade and hurled it at the enemy. "Go!"

The guards looked down when they heard the clank of the deadly metal ball. They began swearing in their various languages until the grenade detonated and ended their lives. Artyom upped from cover and fired at the nest on full automatic, the young Private following close behind, taking cover behind the control room of the checkpoint. Two of the men were hosing down the nest causing the gunner to refocus his fire; meanwhile Artyom's sharp shooter took out the guards in the two nearby towers. The Sergeant peaked behind the corner and leveled his rifle. He fired three shots, two clipping the machine gunner in the chest, the last one in the head and he fell over like a sack of bricks.

"Enemy position silenced," one of his men confirmed.

"Rally up, boys," the Sergeant said. His men regrouped on him. "Deerhound this is Death's Head; we've taken our objective; how copy, over?"

"Deerhound copies all; move on to step two."

"Wilco; Death's Head out." The Sergeant ordered his men forward and they stacked up on the double doors of the facility. The sharp shooter, Private Orlik, threw the Vintorez sniper over his shoulder and brought a PP-2000 to bear. "Sasha," Artyom said to the soldier with the Vepr. "Plant a breaching charge." The young man pulled a charge from his vest, stuck it in the middle of the doors and moved back into position. Artyom looked back to him.

"Blow the charge." Sasha clicked the primer and the door exploded inwards. Two guards were waiting by the door; Artyom and Corporal Maslov dispatched them with three rounds each. The two scanned the hallway for any sign of movement; there was none. The Sergeant lifted his left hand and ordered his men forward with three quick movements.

"Deerhound this is Death's Head; we're inside the facility, over."

"Roger, Death's Head; the other squads have also infiltrated and are en route to the objective, over."

"Copy that; Death's Head is on the move."

They stopped off at each corner to check for contact; it wasn't long before they found it. They were turning down one of the halls towards their destination and a squad of security guards had set up improvised cover and opened fire on the Wolves.

"Fuck me!" Corporal Grachev exclaimed as he fell on his ass and was pelted by 4.6mm rounds. Sasha quickly grabbed the Wolf and threw him behind cover. Lucky for Grachev the tiny rounds were easily absorbed by his advanced body armor, but the impact was powerful regardless.

"You alright!" Sasha screamed over the gunfire.

"I just got the wind knocked out of me but I'm alright," he replied, regaining his bearings. Artyom fired a grenade from his under slung launcher and blew the enemy cover to pieces, killing or rendering the guards unconscious. As the Wolves moved through they put a bullet into the head's of the downed men just to be sure. After a few turns and several run-ins with security personnel the squad linked up with Lieutenant Kostyk and her men.

"Good to see you, Sergeant," she said. "Follow us this way."

"Lieutenant," Artyom spoke as they moved down the hall. "Resistance on the way in was fierce, way worse than we expected."

"I know, Sergeant," she replied. "We ran into some nasty patrols, too. Whatever the hell information they have here must be pretty damned important." Artyom had to agree, but he wasn't thinking about that at the moment. All that was on his mind was completing the current mission. They moved through the facility with their rifles downrange. This was the main area where the research was compiled and archived; below them was the Collider itself, where the magic happened. Above ground this place looked like any other government facility; but below them was what some said was the key to the secrets of the universe.

Finally they arrived at their designated location; it was a large room filled with massive computers and servers. They killed the guards and settled in. Tanya's men guarded the entrance while Artyom's team began the information download. Private Orlik took out a small laptop from his backpack. Using its wireless capabilities he easily hacked into the facilities information center and began downloading the essential files.

"Deerhound this is Redfang," Kostyk reported. "We've begun the download; should be finished here in five minutes, over."

"Roger, Lieutenant; me and my boys have secured the second objective and are downloading the files. We'll see you topside, out."

It didn't take long for the files to download. In that time, Orlik was baffled by the information that was scrolling down the page. The Collider had been very busy over the last decade; they had discovered or touched secrets about nuclear physics, astrophysics, dark matter, and anti-matter, faster than light travel, and even a technique for sealing black holes. How this would help out the cause he had no idea, but for an outsider this was awe-inspiring stuff.

"Task Force this is Red Loon," the Locust pilot called over the radio. "I see a mass of foot-mobiles and light armor converging on the facility; looks like Enforcers to me."

"Dammit!" Lieutenant Kostyk quietly exclaimed. "Private whatever you're gonna' do, do it fast!"

"Download nearly complete," the young Wolf replied, not shaken by the enemy reinforcements. "Got it; we're good to go!" He put the laptop away and reached for his rifle.

"Roger that," Artyom replied. "Deerhound, what's your status, over?" There was a spark of static followed by the Captain's voice and the chatter of automatic fire.

"We're heavily engaged with enemy reinforcements; dammit they're everywhere!" There was a pause. The Captain shouted some orders, followed by an explosion and more gunfire. "Sergeant, get your men topside now! We're gonna' push our way out; but don't wait for us."

"Wilco; Death's Head is on the move." The Sergeant accepted the situation for what it was. The others looked at him with surprised expressions. "What are you waiting for, you heard the Captain; move your asses!" The two squads left the same way they got in. Of course, before that happened they were cut off by a platoon of Enforcers who opened up immediately, killing two Wolves while the others returned fire.

"Son of a bitch!" Kostyk exclaimed and rolled to cover behind the corridor wall. "Puchkina! Use your hand grenades!" Artyom leaned around the corner and fired off a stream of hot lead at caught one of the Enforcers in the throat and another one in his eye. He loaded a fresh mag and primed another forty millimeter grenade. An explosion echoed through the hall when Private Puchkina's grenade detonated.

"Move up!" Artyom ordered his men who flooded the hall. They peppered the remaining Enforcers with hot lead and continued down.

"Deerhound this is Death's Head," the Sergeant said over the radio. "What's your status, over?" There was no response. He tried again but got nothing. "Deerhound do you copy, over?" Still, the Sergeant got nothing.

"Are we gonna' go back for him?" one of the Wolves asked as they continued to head for the exit.

"His orders were for us to get topside ASAP and that's what we're gonna' do. Keep moving."

Finally they made it to the outside of the facility. Badger IFV's had positioned themselves in front of the entrance with Enforcers taking up positions surrounding the Wolves. The searchlights from the towers drowned them in light. Artyom and company froze in their place, not out of fear but out of the knowledge that they had no heavy weapons and no means of escape. However, for the Spetsnaz, surrender was never an option.

"Attention, soldiers of the Russian Republic," an officer spoke in surprisingly fluent Russian from a loudspeaker inside one of the IFV's. "You are surrounded; there is no escape. Lay your weapons down in front of you and come forward peacefully; you will not survive otherwise…I can assure you your lives will be spared." That was a load of shit. Russian troops had surrendered under these conditions before and were killed just as if they had fought back. He had seen it happen countless times; this would not be one of them. Artyom quietly spoke into his throat mic.

"Red Loon this is Death's Head; we've been compromised…"

"Roger," the pilot replied. "Red Loon is inbound; hold tight, troopers."

"You have five seconds to comply!" the enemy officer shouted, becoming more and more impatient. But for a Spetsnaz, five seconds was four too long. In the distance the chop of a helicopter blade became more and more audible and underneath the balaclava Artyom had formed a sinister grin. There was a hissing noise, followed by a pause, and a volley of rockets collided with the enemy IFV's and infantry positions. The Wolves leveled their rifles almost instantly and fired everything they had; ripping flesh and bone from the enemy Enforcers in a bullet storm of 5.45mm armor piercing rounds. Red Loon descended as the pilot approached the entrance of the facility.

"Ladies and gentlemen now would be a good time to get the hell out of here." the pilot said.

"Go, get the men onboard!" Artyom screamed at Lieutenant Kostyk. She waved her men towards the chopper. They ran with their rifles facing the remaining enemies. Artyom fired another grenade from his launcher and continued to spray as he slowly backed towards the heli. He took a bullet to his left upper torso and collapsed to his knee.

"Sergeant!" Kostyk called, her eyes widening.

"I got it." The chopper gunner said and fired on the remaining enemy positions. Kostyk ran to Artyom, slung her rifle around to her back and got him on his feet.

"Come on, come on!" she cried. It seemed like an eternity before she got him onboard, laying him on the floor of the heli and covering his wound. "We're on; get us out, go; go; go!" The MI-55 leaped into the skies like a nuclear bomb was about to go off and sped away into the night. The bay door sealed shut. A massive sense of relief came over the Spetsnaz as they removed their balaclavas and safetied their weapons. Artyom was bleeding from his wound and his eyes were glistening from tears brought on by the stinging sensation; his mouth was filled with blood and it stained his BDU's and gear.

"We got wounded back here!" Tanya called the pilot.

"Don't worry; we'll get your man home in time…where's the Captain?" Kostyk looked down to Artyom, who gave her a look straight in her eye. He gently shook his head.

"He's dead," she replied. "He didn't make it." Silence briefly fell over the cabin. Most of the Wolves put their heads back and fell asleep while others had quiet conversations.

"You alright there, Sergeant?" Tanya asked. Artyom grunted.

"Yeah…I've had worse…I'll be fine," he said trying to save his strength. Tanya smiled and gave him a light tap on the arm.

"You did damn good, Sergeant…thanks for getting my men out safely." And right there, for the first time in three years, without even noticing…Artyom smiled. He felt so strange all of the sudden; like he had butterflies in his stomach. He stared into her eyes and she returned it...but when he realized what had just happened, he was dumbstruck and nearly passed out. The Lieutenant understood. She knew what had just happened to him, and she was happy. All the time in the world seemed to pass before the two of them broke away. The other Wolves were looking at them in confusion. Kostyk stood up and turned to the cockpit.

"Radio General Tatarev," she said to the pilot. "Tell him we're on our way home."

"Sergeant," one of the men, a medic, said and knelt down to him. "Let me take a look at that."

* * *

><p>Colonel Savilov's tanks and artillery had provided the ground troops with invaluable support; without it they would have never gotten so far into the city. At that moment a mass of Russian Army infantry and armor support poured into Klagenfurt. By now most of the civilians had been evacuated and as such the infantry were on an equal footing with the enemy. Savilov received a coded transmission from General Tatarev. It read:<p>

_Collision report; car is totaled. No need for pickup_. And just like that, Savilov's mission was over.

"Attention all SGB 5th armored elements; mission complete. All units should begin withdrawing from the area at this time."

"Solid copy, Colonel," one of the tank commanders replied. "All units are RTB at this time." Savilov closed the holographic map and removed his headset. The live feeds were still running. He could see the flashes of light and could hear the booms of explosions echoing through the night. He remembered when he was an infantryman in Georgia in 2008; that war only lasted for four months and was less than a fraction as destructive as this one. However it was back then that he was down in the mud and fought on the frontline. In those days he was a support gunner, and a damned good one at that. He remembered how the Georgians were swept away by the onslaught of the Russian Army, and even though they attacked Russian civilians and shelled Russian territories, the now defunct NATO and the West in general was quick to denounce Russia's action in defending themselves…as if they were supposed to watch while their own people were killed. It was a bad joke.

"_In Russia…we were heroes_." Fyodor thought to himself. But to the West, they were villains, the scum of the earth; a war mongering nation of thugs and criminals. Ironic considering NATO's actions in Afghanistan and Iraq that claimed over a million people and thousands of soldiers who signed up under the pretext that they were fighting a truly vile enemy that hated America because of their freedom and ideals…in a way, Fyodor almost felt sorry for them. He was sorry that they fell for the propaganda, and the lies of their government; he was sorry that they fought in a war whose real purpose was to dehumanize the Arab nations so the US could set up oil pipelines to supply their war machine. Of course, that wasn't to say that Russia had a perfect track record either; they knew that. The hypocrisy came from the US selling itself as the land of the free, the home of liberty and justice; yet they policed their own people and killed millions in their struggle to dominate the planet. But now, there was an equal, possibly greater force to oppose them; Russia was that force.

The soldiers of the Russian military and, although they never publicly admitted it, the SGB commanders and troops all had an immense sense of calling; it was their destiny to bring freedom to the West; it was their destiny to fight and die; it was their patriotic duty to uphold the values of the New Republic and to destroy the enemy that wanted nothing more, than to bring harm to the Motherland. If nothing else, Savilov saw it as an opportunity to make a name for himself; hopefully he had accomplished that tonight. For some reason, he felt that the tide of the war was about to change dramatically…his intuition was dead on.

* * *

><p>And so ends chapter three. Like I said, this one (to me at least) was less than impressive. However I think I put enough story elements in it to make for a decent chapter four. I hope you enjoyed this one, and as always, reviews and critique are greatly appreciated.<p>

-Bloodmark Mentor


	4. Chapter 4: The Chain of Command

Authors note: This chapter may be a bit...lacking. However, I couldn't really think of anything else that needed to be added, and to me it is quite satisfactory for what it is. Enjoy.

* * *

><p>Franco-Swiss Border, European Federation<br>Large Hadron Collider facility, ten minutes after SGB infiltration

General Matz was unimpressed. He walked down the corridors and viewed the carnage that had taken the place of the once pristine facility. Bullet holes riddled the walls along with scorch markings from light explosives. Broken glass littered the floors, soaked in blood, covered in pieces of flesh and bone. The smell of death was thick, but it didn't faze the General. Some of the others held their hands to their noses while others gagged as they tried to hold in their vomit. Matz snarled and rolled his eyes at their pathetic nature. _This is unacceptable_, he thought to himself at the failure of his men to stop the Russians. His tech officers were looking into it, but who knew what information could have been stolen. It was bad enough knowing that the Russians had escaped, but it was unnerving that he had no idea what they intended to do with the intel they had acquired. He was enraged, and was going to hold accountable those who had failed him. He had sent his best men to defend the facility, and more than two thirds of them were dead. They were the lucky ones. It was the ones who were alive that were going to feel Matz's wrath.

"I am not pleased, Commander," he spoke to Jantzen Hjorth, the man who was in charge of the defense of the facility. "I gave you a very simple task of defending this facility; I gave you command of my best men, and this is how you repay me?"

"General, understand that there was no way of knowing the Russians would come here! We did everything we could."

"I am not here to address what you _did_; I am here to address what you have _failed_ to do." Hjorth's shame was apparent on his face. Finally he was given a task of some significance, and he let the enemy slip away. Up until now he had had a minimal role in the war effort, having only been deployed for combat three times over the course of two years. It was because of his average prowess and lack of ambition that he was here to begin with.

"I accept full responsibility for the deaths of your men, and for letting the enemy escape."

"And you rightfully bear the blame," Matz replied, unshaken and unsympathetic despite the Commander's courage.

"In my defense, General, we did manage to stop half of them in their tracks," Hjorth said regarding the elimination of the second group of Spetsnaz that had taken part in the infiltration.

"That is insignificant," Matz replied. "The fact is that the other half of them got away, and with them, the vital information they were seeking. Spare me your defense, Commander; it is irrelevant to me." Hjorth didn't say anything after that. There was nothing he could. Matz looked down to the dead bodies of his men. He was disgusted that his best couldn't stop a simple infiltration. He stepped over them and continued on. Other Enforcers were scouring the facility, checking the bodies, running forensics and checking the computers to see what information had been stolen. This failure was unacceptable and disgraceful to the European Federation. If the Russians could hit this facility, they could hit anywhere. It was a wakeup call for Matz; the enemy wasn't as precarious as he'd suspected. It lit a fire under his ass that he couldn't ignore…he would need to accelerate his plans.

"I got a live one here!" an Enforcer called. Matz and several others walked over to see a Spetsnaz covered in blood and delusional because of his wounds. He was propped up against a wall and his head listed lazily back and forth as he tried to remain conscious. Based on his insignia, this man was a Captain…no nametag, though. The General's first thought was to take him in for interrogation, but he knew what Spetsnaz training was designed to do; it created soldiers who were incapable of being broken, even with enhanced truth serums and what some might call _dangerous_ _methods_. Matz himself had had a chance to talk to one of them when the war started. He interrogated and tortured the Russian for hours and hours, but couldn't get anything; not even a name. At that, he looked to the wounded Russian, took out a Glock 19 pistol and shot him in the head. No one so much as flinched. He safetied the pistol and holstered it. The Enforcers continued their investigation.

Suddenly a feeling of extreme uneasiness befell the facility, and Matz knew that he would have to work quickly to get his plans in motion. In two days, high ranking officers and officials from both America and Europe would be meeting to discuss and flesh out a new strategy for ending the war. Colonel Hans Jaeger was also going to be present, being an essential puppet in Matz's plan; he was disposable, like many other men in the European military, the pitiful bastard. But Matz needed a man, and Jaeger was it. There was no way the General would take the blame for what was going to happen. But to him, the ends always justified the means, even if it _did_ involve the deaths of hundreds of thousands. But the fact of the matter was that American and European forces were fighting the Russians across the globe, their forces growing more and more exhausted, stretched thinner and taking more losses every day, and yet despite his best efforts, there was actually very little the General could do by himself; if someone didn't do something, this war was not going to end in their favor, and Matz would _not_ let that happen. In two days, he would make it abundantly clear that defeat was only a breath away.

* * *

><p>Washington DC, United States<br>Zero Two Hundred Hours, July 30th

David Becerra was not the most popular president to ever serve a term. His administration was secretive, its actions shrouded in mystery; he was a proponent of military intervention and use of force. He signed multiple executive orders that infringed upon the liberties of the people, including firearms confiscation, wiretapping, prolonged detention and the suspension of habeas corpus, and posse commentates among others. He granted excessive funding to the military and cut welfare, raised taxes and initiated martial law. He had made it all too clear that anyone who did not support the nation's war effort would be detained, jailed and black listed. He made it possible to shut down the internet so as to remove any anti-war media, including videos, articles and photos. Protests were not highlighted by any major media outlets, and were viciously stomped out by the police and private military forces. He also reinstated the draft for all men and women ages eighteen to thirty five. Yet somehow his approval ratings were higher than that of the last three administrations; and it was all because of five magic words; _a matter of national security_; that and the "rally 'round the flag" policy, in which a leaders approval ratings sky-rocketed in times of crisis.

Becerra understood that the population had been fed up and the whole country was on the verge of revolution before the war began. Lucky for him, the corporate media was more than willing to spread fear for ratings. They would report on arms buildups in the Middle East and Russia and how their influences were spreading across the globe. They branded the enemy as extremists and warmongers, and would invite American and European officers and Generals on their shows to talk about the growing threat of the Russian "empire." They also began doing more and more reporting on the American militia groups and constitutionalists, as well as servicemen and women who had severed their loyalty to the military. The media did a great job of making them look like extremists, terrorists, religious fundamentalist, and other bogus titles. Before long, people were _begging_ for the government to step in. They demanded that the militias be hunted down and killed, that all privately owned firearms be taken away, and that all forms of communication were monitored. In a speech Becerra made to the public the first month of the war, he stated

"_In order for us to remain secure as a nation, we must be able to take action in a way that best benefits the whole. We must be able to decide at every given minute when the rule of law is applied or suspended. In ancient Rome during times of crisis the government would suspend democracy and place the act of defending the empire on the shoulders of one man; I will be the man to do that for our United States, but let me make it clear that the survival of our nation rests on complete and total compliance with all laws and regulations and protocol instituted by this government. We will do what needs to be done, but the American people must uphold their end of the deal, too_."

Of course there were those who were opposed to and offended by the president's words, but most of them had been taken care of by now, either being imprisoned or killed if they refused to be imprisoned. Becerra wanted to make it clear that any form of dissent was absolutely unacceptable. If America was going to win the war, the people would need to fall in line. That being said, the militias were becoming more and more of a pain in the ass. The military had no idea how unprepared they were to fight the insurrection; it turned out there were way more militias than previously suspected. Then there were resistance groups in local towns, and some cities had even declared themselves _demilitarized, _while some of the states had attempted to secede. Becerra authorized full military force to take back the lands that had declared independence. Despite the growing numbers of dissatisfied people, the war effort waning, and the Russians massing for an invasion, the President was still confident that the war could be won. In two days time General Mitchell and other high-ranking officials of the European military and parliament would meet in Copenhagen to finalize the details of _Operation Wild Knife. _And when General Joseph Whitney Merrill, one of the president's most enthusiastic lobbyists entered the oval office, David knew that today would be business as usual.

"I've got good news," Merrill said. "The Chinese have stalled the Russian advance on the capital. Now they're gathering up all the remaining forces they can; buy some time so maybe we could send some reinforcements."

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" the president joked. "I thought you were just an enthusiastic supporter?"

"Hey, I'm a member of the Council of Foreign Relations, too; and the Trilateral Commission. I'm an invaluable member of your cabinet."

"Yeah well that's not gonna' help beat the Russians." The President was aware of every movement made by the enemy and allied forces. Right now the areas most important where American support would be needed were China and Europe; the Euros were holding their lines well enough and had even launched small offensives in Eastern Europe and the Middle East earlier today. It was ironic that China opted to assist the United States in the war effort, but when David actually stopped to think about it, it made sense considering how economically bound the US was to China. Still, though, it was unusual; but in this war, the more allies the West had, the better. The European military had a strong influence in Northern Africa, with troops stationed in ten countries. Throughout the last two years, multiple militant groups had taken up arms against the European troops stationed on the continent, but not one of them was strong or organized enough to put up a legitimate fight. However, recently attacks had begun to turn up in large volume, and it was beginning to affect Europe's operational capabilities on the continent. Overall the situation was getting worse.

"If we're going to send support to China it will have to be limited," Becerra spoke. "Perhaps a Carrier battle group…we're already having enough problems holding our positions in South America and Europe without having to sacrifice mainland defenses. Our commanders in South America have been suggesting withdrawal from the continent."

"On what basis?" Merrill asked.

"That the resources we've been committing to an area with no real strategic significance could be put to better use elsewhere. In that case we'd hand over combat operations to the PMCs."

"I would advise you against that action; the Russians could very well use Venezuela and Columbia as staging areas for attacks on the mainland."

"We'd still have our bases in Mexico and Texas; if we pulled even one battalion out of South America, we could send them to China to reinforce their positions, give our allies a fighting chance."

"Perhaps the Euro's would be able to send some support to compensate for our withdrawal."

"General, what's with you and keeping our forces in the South?" the President asked, annoyed. "It's a region of no significance to us which is costing men and money everyday." The General wore a look of stern disapproval. In his mind, if South America was lost, the Russians would easily use it as a staging area for attacks on the US mainland…support for the Russians was popular enough in the region that they would have no trouble establishing bases. "I understand your concern, but we simply do no have the man power to keep our troops in the region and support our operations around the globe. Today I will issue orders to begin immediate withdrawal of our forces." Becerra looked down at the papers on his desk and began writing. The General stared at him with his mouth gently hanging. The president paused for a second, and looked up.

"Why are you still here, General Merrill?" He didn't say anything. It was as if this man was personally offended by David's words…as if he had just insulted the General's grandmother. But Becerra wasn't intimidated; he'd dealt with people like Merrill time and time before. "Did you hear me? Get going."

"Sir, yes sir," Merrill calmly replied, seething with rage underneath his cool exterior. He turned and exited the oval office. The General's plan was now compromised, and what was worse was that David seemed to have shaken from his leash; strange considering every major decision made up till now had been made by Merrill or one of the President's many lobbyists. Now this son of a bitch was trying to exercise his freewill…Merrill was enraged. But it wasn't like he could technically do anything; it was more or less an unspoken agreement that the President had with his lobbyists; they told him to jump, he would ask how high. It wasn't like they could touch him…not yet at least. Time was running out, and with the Russians knocking on America's backdoor, the window of opportunity was closing fast. Now was the time to act.

* * *

><p>Qashqadaryo Province, New Russian Republic<br>SGB Forward Operating Base (FOB)

Sitting in the infirmary with multiple bandages and various painkillers pumped into him, Artyom felt pretty damn useless by most any standard. The medics said he would be good to go in a week; the advent of modern medicine in the year 2022 was easing the healing process, but the Sergeant had still taken a hit from a 7x43mm round…luckily it hadn't clipped any vital organs, and the squad medic managed to stop the bleeding on the ride home. This wasn't the first time Artyom had been shot, and it probably wouldn't be the last. But that's not what was bothering him.

It wasn't the fact that Captain Kozlov had been killed and his entire team wiped out, it wasn't the fact that he had lost some men of his own or the fact that he would be utterly useless for the next week. What was truly bothering him was his interaction with Tanya on the chopper. He looked up to her and smiled, for the first time in what felt like so many years…and he hated himself for it. He had allowed himself to develop affection for this woman, he had let his guard down and he knew that he had to let go. If he had truly gained a sort of love for the Lieutenant, and he lost her in the field, Artyom would be consumed by his inner darkness forever. If there was any chance of reclaiming his old light, he would take it; and he would have to disconnect himself from Lieutenant Kostyk. The Sergeant simply couldn't afford to have a soul…for now, at least. And wouldn't he know it, speaking of the devil, Tanya entered the infirmary.

"How you holding up, Sergeant?" she asked him.

"Not too bad," he replied. "A little drowsy from all of the painkillers, though."

"Not to worry, you'll be on your feet again in no time, which is good because things are about to get interesting."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well according to General Tatarev, the information we stole from the Euros is going to be used to build some new sort of weapon…and that's not all; now that Kozlov is gone, we need a new company commander…and I'm next in the chain of command."

"Are you sure you're ready for it?" Artyom asked.

"What choice do I have? Until we get a replacement for Kozlov, the company needs a leader, and right now most of our senior officers are out in the field on extended operations."

"Then I guess we better hope our next op isn't for a while," Artyom replied.

"Yeah well _you_ get a nice comfy bed and food service for the next week," the Lieutenant joked.

"Trust me, I'd much rather be on my feet. It's quite unsettling to not have a gun on me right now."

"You want mine?" she asked and motioned to her MP-443. "This holsters starting to dig into my hip."

"If you can get my AK from the armory that would be preferable," Artyom said and grinned...before realizing he was getting, as the Americans would call it, _flirtatious_, with Tanya. She gently smiled and let out a chuckle.

"One week ain't gonna' kill you, Sergeant," she said and got up to leave. "Now get some rest; you've earned it." Artyom leaned back, put his head into the pillow and Tanya exited. Silently he cursed himself repeatedly for having let his guard down. He didn't understand. Why was it that he was unable to keep this woman at a distance? Why couldn't she be like all the others that Artyom could treat as fellow soldiers and nothing else? It was a mystery to him, and he fought with everything he could to suppress it. What was most disturbing to him was how fast he had developed feelings for her. All it took was a small glance on a helicopter…could he have fallen that easily?

No… he couldn't have; and he _would not_ let himself fall further.

* * *

><p>Colorado Militia Headquarters,<br>Thirteen Hundred Hours, July 31st 2022

Officially, the United States was in the midst of a second civil war, what many of the militia liked to call the _Second American Revolution_. That was how Peter Gabriel saw it, but of course the media and the current administration had put a much darker spin on it. The militia groups were branded with the usual slanders of dissenters: terrorists, extremists, violent militants, traitors, etc. For the most part that did not faze Peter, nor did his men seem too affected by it. The way the government was going about running America, it was easy for Peter to recruit new men. First, both the civil war and the one that America and Europe were fighting abroad were unwanted and unwelcomed by the American people, not to mention the fighting around the globe was becoming more and more unsustainable with each passing day. It was bad enough that American taxes were so extreme before the war began, what with the military having nearly nine hundred bases around the world and having fought multiple wars in the Middle East, Africa and South America, but the new taxes introduced to fund this massive war effort were effectively enslaving the American people, as it required all citizens to pay up to fifty percent of their salaries to the federal government, not to mention the fact that new legislation had been introduced years earlier that would allow the military to detain individuals without trial or charges read to them, and they could be kept in jail for an indefinite amount of time. Now these unconstitutional policies were being implemented, and the American people were mad as hell…most of them, at least.

Protests that had erupted because of the war and subsequent new taxes were met with police forces with military assistance. People were being killed in the streets, sent to FEMA camps and getting tazed and shot at with rubber, and sometimes _live_ munitions. But the straw that truly broke the camels back was the massacre at Arlington, Texas where US Army personnel flat out opened fire on protestors without prior warning, being provoked into shooting or even as a final last, albeit foolish resort. That was what finally got Peter to stand up and fight, and that very same week he and his men coordinated the first militia offensive of the war when they attacked a US Army outpost.

Since then, hundreds of other groups had risen to face the threat of their tyrannical government, finally opening their eyes and realizing what needed to be done. Of course there were those who blindly followed, who were too cowardly and timid to stand up against their oppressors, and even supported the system that was enslaving them…a poor, pathetic bunch. They were the ones who saw it as patriotic to support the war and the killing of protestors. It was strange to Peter that some of them still supported this system, but it was ultimately of little significance. The Colorado militia was the largest in the nation and had made the most progress in the war against tyranny than any other.

The militia headquarters was actually a massive series of tunnels that spanned for miles in each direction, with larger areas that served as dining halls, ammo storage, etc. Multiple entrances and exits were built sporadically throughout the vast woodlands of Colorado Springs, and sometimes they were no bigger than two feet across; just big enough to crawl through. But the real trick was remembering which of the entrances were real. The militias had dug hundreds of "dummy holes" throughout the region so as to deter any intruders who may have been on search missions. So far, no one except the militia knew where the headquarters were.

Peter sat down at a small wooden table and turned on the radio to listen to the media broadcasts. He constantly awaited the news of Russian ground forces landing on the American shorelines. He had been in contact with Russian spy elements in recent months who assured Peter that when the invasion forces arrived, they would support the American militias. It was an uneasy alliance to say the least; it was borderline treason. But Peter knew that the Russians weren't his enemies and they would be an invaluable ally in the war effort.

Peter listened in to a local broadcast that was being transmitted from a Department of Homeland Security facility. "_You're listening to DHSR evening news; our top story tonight: sixty one civilians are dead in the wake of a militia shooting spree. Fifteen militiamen stormed into a local outlet mall armed with automatic weapons and improvised explosives and carried out their indiscriminate attack for ten minutes. Local authorities in conjunction with Army personnel executed an extremely precise not to mention heroic raid on the mall and were able to dispatch the fifteen men in quick order, with one of the men surrendering. It was confirmed by the sole surviving insurgent that the men who participated in the attack were members of the local militia force led by one Peter Gabriel, whom they received their orders from to attack the mall_."

At that moment Peter took the radio and threw it across the room in a massive fit of rage. "FUCKING LIARS!" he screamed. He was breathing heavily in complete anger when Dan Redding turned the corner and Peter turned to face him. Peter turned red in the face from his embarrassment, but he was so frustrated that these flat out _lies_ could pass for truth. What was worse was that thousands of people in the area tuned in to hear these broadcasts! Moreover, what would be the advantage of killing innocent people? What would a militia, working to restore constitutional government gain from such an atrocity?

"You've been listening to the broadcasts again?" Red asked. Peter sat down at the table once more and Dan joined him.

"I don't know why I insist on punishing myself," Gabriel replied.

"I don't either," Dan said. "But I think it's about time you stopped listening to that damn thing…I think you broke it anyway."

"Changing the subject, you got any news for me?"

"I just got contacted by Frank Morgan, leader of a militia from South Dakota; says he and his men raided an Army outpost and found chemical weapons stashed in with other small arms; he thinks it might be white phosphorous. He also says he plans to use it in an upcoming attack…that's bad news, but he said that he would appreciate your input before they go ahead."

"Tell him to dispose of it _immediately_; it'll be a public relations nightmare if we use white phosphorous on Army troops. Have you seen what that stuff does to people? No one deserves to die like that."

"Oh come on, man, fuck the public's opinion!" Dan exclaimed. "We need to use everything we can to fight the Feds! You _know_ they would use it on us if they got the chance."

"That's why we need to be the better men here. The difference is that if we use it, support for our cause goes down; if the Feds use it, no one gives a fuck. Hell, I doubt the media would even report on it; Becerra alone decides what the people get to hear."

"This is bullshit," Dan said.

"I know it's a shitty situation," Peter replied. "But it'll be even worse if Morgan goes through with this attack; we've been making excellent progress in the last few weeks alone and we've recruited ten people in five days. We aren't savages, Dan; we don't commit atrocities on our fellow countrymen."

"I only wish our _fellow countrymen_ upheld the same code of honor."

"This is war, old friend. I hate it, too; but remember what Jefferson said: the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants…we'll win this war…and I'll get my girls back."

"I hope so, Peter," Dan replied, uncertain. "I really hope so."

* * *

><p>So concludes chapter four. It took me nearly a year, but I've uploaded four chapters to this piece. Overall I'd say that's pretty damn good for a working man. The coming chapters are going to reveal more plot points in the story; if you haven't noticed, I'm trying to keep things vague, because I really want to do a good job on this one. This is the final chapter to be uploaded in 2011, so I hope you enjoyed it. Happy new year, everyone! I'll see you on the other side.<p>

-Bloodmark Mentor.


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